


It starts in the middle

by Pigsinspaaace



Series: Roommates AU [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, baz's wasn't so great either, tw: Simon had a really awful childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 130,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigsinspaaace/pseuds/Pigsinspaaace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College A/U. Starts in the  middle of the story, and will be filled in forward and backwards. Really I just love the moment that they start turning from enemies to friends. And I love their first kiss. So I just wanted to write a new version of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon discover they will be stuck with one another over winter break. Baz proposes a truce and Simon calls his bluff. Or maybe Baz calls Simon's bluff? They're both starting to be awfully confused.

**_December 20th_ **

 

**Simon**

I don't know what to make of the fact that I'm dreading Christmas. I’ve always liked Christmas in NYC. There's a tradition of take-out Chinese and going to the movies that's just as sacred as Christmas trees and Santa Claus (if not more so). Half the people I know in school don't celebrate Christmas, so it's never felt weird to be a person who has no family to go home to.

Maybe I'm just worried because for the last two years, I've done kung-pao chicken and Christmas morning matinees with Agatha. But if I'm being honest, it's kind of a relief not to have to keep a dying relationship stumbling along. Aimee and Jonah and Annika and Sarayah are all going to be around, and it’s all going to be fine. Fun, I mean. Not just fine. Fun. Now I'm talking to myself. Great.

And I should be happy about getting my room to myself for a change. Not having to watch Baz out of the corner of my eyes to see if he's plotting something. Not having to keep track of when he eats and sleeps and showers and goes to class, to make sure he's doing ok. I mean, that he's not back on drugs. That I don't need to worry about pigeons nesting under the couch in the common room.

I won't have to listen as he sighs and stretches when he wakes up. I won't have to pretend to be asleep as he muddles around gathering his stuff and heading off to the bathroom down the hall. Not have to watch him sneak snickers bars when he thinks no ones watching, not having to notice how he chews on his bottom lip when he's studying. Not have to notice how his jeans hug his legs. Or the sliver of his back I can sometimes see when he reaches up to grab something off the top shelf of the wardrobe.

Fuck. I'm in real trouble, aren't I? When did this even happen? I don't even like boys. And I definitely don't like Baz. And I don't trust him and I can't stop thinking about how his hair would feel if I knitted my fingers through it. Ok, that was a weird thought. Fuck this. Im going running.

 

**Baz**

It's always a bitter relief when I get back to my room and Snow’s not there. And I need the extra time today, to compose my face, to breathe in his scent without worrying about what he might see in my eyes. Not living with him for a week will be a relief. A lonely, sad, painful relief. There should be a word for that. It would make me feel less like I was lying to myself.

I'm pissed at him, too, for making my life so fucking complicated. I've finally worked up the courage not to go home for Christmas, and I can't even wallow in my own misery properly while he's still there. And I still don't know when he's planning to leave. Finals end tomorrow, though I think he already had his last one. Mine were all projects and papers this year, so I've been done since last Wednesday.

Whatever and whoever and wherever his mystery family is, he's made no mention of when he's going to see them. My luck, he'll be here til the 24th. I can't tell if that's good luck or bad luck.

I just have to fucking ask him. I can't spend the next five days wondering (hoping? dreading?) if it's the last day I'll see him until next term.

He gets back sweaty and flushed from running and I stare at him for a second too long before I turn back to my book and pretend to ignore him as usual. When has my life turned into such an absurd farce?

I feel his eyes still on me. Shit. He must have seen my face. He knows. He can't know. I wish he knew. He would hate me. More than he already does.

But when I glance up, everything is normal. Good. Better this way. He stumbles his usual clumsy way around the room, gathering his no-frills shampoo and Walgreens soap and threadbare towel. I never knew it was possible to be ostentatious about poverty. I don't even have to fake the sneer I rely on to cover the heat that overcomes me when I think of him about to shower, imagine him coming back steaming and shirtless other than that fucking towel that's too thin to give me the slightest peace.

I am so fucked. I let my head fall to my desk when he finally leaves the room, and count the minutes until he's back, smelling like a hospital and somehow still smelling so fucking good.

I'll ask him when he gets back. When he's leaving. I need to know. I can't go through another day like this.

 

**Simon**

The run helped while I was running. Well, admittedly, I was running and occasionally sort of not so accidentally smashing into walls and parking meters and street signs. But the minute I stepped into the room and saw Baz at his desk, hair down and shoes off, all I could think was how nice it would be to just walk over and rest my hand on his shoulder. How his body would feel under my fingers, through the smooth cloth of his pajamas. I can't believe he fucking wears pajamas. What kind of self respecting drug addict wears pajamas and bathrobes and flosses twice a day? Ex drug addict, I correct myself. So far as I can tell. It's been harder to follow him around during finals.

I stare at him for a moment too long and then look away, horrified that he might have noticed. If he was unbearable now, I could only imagine how relentless he would be, if he knew the idiotic thoughts that were swimming through my head.

So I fumble around, grabbing my shit so I can leave and take a post-run shower, praying he'll be asleep before I got back. I knock at least three books over and bang into a chair while grabbing my soap and finding a towel in the pile of clean laundry I dumped at the end of the bed. I've never understood the point of folding laundry up all neatly when you're just going to get it dirty again within a few days.

I'm not always a clumsy ass but something about being around him makes me knock into things and forget what I'm doing. He rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation at my oafish floundering and I remember with a flash of heat how much he hates me.

I'm halfway through my shower before I'm willing to entertain the thought that's been insistently trying to break through my consciousness ever since I got back from my run.

His face, when I walked into the room. For a second, I thought there was something there beyond the habitual derision and disdain. For a second, I thought I saw sadness flash across his pale features. And something else. Longing. Desperation.

Yeah. As if. I'm infatuated to the point of delusions already. Not a good sign. I have no hope of surviving the rest of the year. I cling to the thought that any day now, he'll be gone. At least for a couple of weeks. The thought comforts me the same way that pressing a finger deeply into a fresh bruise is comforting. The comfort of pain you know, against the pain you can imagine.

When is he going to leave, anyway? He's been done with finals since at least the weekend, maybe earlier. I hope he just disappears before I have to crash into any more walls. I hope he never leaves at all. I hope there's a point to all this confusion. I hope he's asleep before I get back to our room.

No such luck. He's sitting exactly were he was before I left. I could swear he's at exactly the same page in his book, too. He turns towards me as I slide into bed. That's new. He generally avoids acknowledging my existence at all costs. There's definitely something in his face now, but I don't think it's something good. My heart twists in an unfamiliar way.

 

**Baz**

He wafts in on a cloud of steam and the smell of antiseptic. He looks disappointed to see me still sitting here. Good. No reason I should always be the only one suffering.

I focus on the words swimming across the page in front of me and try not to think about him naked behind me, scrambling through his wardrobe for sweatpants and a t shirt. He always sleeps in more or less the same thing he'd wear to class. Probably because he's such a lazy ass in the mornings.

I try not to think about that either. About his golden hair spread in a stupid abundance of curls against his austere white cotton pillow case. His golden arm hanging off the edge of the too-small dorm bed. The smooth skin of his chest and shoulder where his worn t-shirt always pulls away from his neck.

I have to get a grip on myself. I have to know when the dreaded reprieve will start. I have to ask him. Now.

I turn as I hear him slip into bed. I'm rewarded by the look of wary surprise he gives me at this breach in our unspoken protocol. I try to pour as much venom into my voice as I can, to mask any longing or pain that may try to get out.

“Why the fuck are you still here, Snow? Surely even you have a family somewhere who can stand the sight of you. When the hell are you going home?”

I don't expect the look of raw pain that flashes across his face. It is gone so quickly that I can't be sure I didn't imagine it. It's replaced by his habitual look of martyred exhaustion. But it's enough to pull me up short. I may live to torment him, but that doesn't mean I want him to ever actually be hurt. I didn't think he could be hurt, he's so fucking invincible.

“We're not the Christmas types,” he says enigmatically. “So fuck off. And what about you? Surely your parents’ country estate can't possibly start the holiday festivities without the heir apparent on the scene?”

I'm unsure what to say. Which is seriously unusual for me. Whatever it was I'd expected from the conversation, it wasn't this. I guess I hadn't actually thought it through. I imagined he’d just say ‘tomorrow’ or something, and then we could go back to ignoring each other. But now it looks like we're going to be stuck together over break, with no classes or routine to organize the inner chaos.

I try to recover, but I'm too confused, and my voice is more honest than I’d like when I respond. “I'm not going home. I can't face it. I'm…” I finally manage to stop talking before I say anything even more stupid. “… not going.”

I feel shaken, and not sure why. I have to get out of this room. I slip jeans and a coat over my pajamas and walk out calmly as if that were what I was planning to do all along. I don't know if he buys it, and I don't particularly care. 

It's not really that late, but campus is already a ghost town. The only people I know who are still around are people I definitely don't want to see. I head to the music rooms. My only real refuge in the whole city. There's nothing that can calm me when I'm like this as much as playing. I have a locked carrel where I keep my violin, and my feet speed up at the thought of holding it in the dark. Making it sing. Letting it say all the things I can't even admit to myself. Sublimating my voice into the vibrations of wood and string.

As I walk quickly through the cold December air, I try to piece together what just happened. What exactly did I say? Something about his family awaiting his return. The look in his face was that of a frightened child. A trapped animal. Pure pain, and fear. I've never really given much thought to his family before. He never talks about them, but then again, he and I don't exactly talk.

I'm usually so preoccupied by the need to cover up how fucked up my own family is, I just assume everyone else’s family is more… Conventional. Messed up in the more mundane ways that all families are. People love to complain about how awful their parents are. And I have no patience for it because they have no rutting clue what they're even talking about.

But Simon never complains about his family, now that I think about it. There's no surer sign of a fucked up past than one that's never talked about. I should know.

But somehow I didn't know. Because it's so goddamn implausible. The wonder child, the relentlessly earnest defender of justice, the ceaselessly happy king of a band of loyal friends. Surely such a person could only emerge from a loving family who adored him endlessly and told him at every turn how proud they are of everything he's become. Surely that's how he grew up. Otherwise he'd be more… like me.

It hits me suddenly that his rosy-cheeked goodness is as much of a sham as my cold, impenetrable superiority. Did I really think I was the only one who might have a secret pain hidden behind a public mask? I'm disgusted with myself. I'm displaying the worst kind of self pity, to the point of self absorption. Indulging in the kind of myopia I hate in other people.

These are thoughts that generally herald a dangerous cycle of self loathing, and I force myself to let them go as I rub resin onto my bow, adjust the chin rest and take the violin to my heart. I forget everything outside the curtain of sound I weave around the silence.

When my arm is protesting and my neck is stiff from holding the violin in place, I finally give up and go back to our room. Simon's already asleep, and I let myself watch him. It's comforting, even though it probably shouldn't be. I know this is all I will ever get of him. All I should ever get, too. But at least I have this. And it's better than not having it.

I get ready for bed and then lie down on my side and watch him. His face is soft in the moonlight that pours in through the window. His mouth is open and his skin is smooth and he looks like something perfect, precious. Something to protect and hold and never let go.

He sighs and mumbles something and rolls over slightly and my breath hitches at the movement of his muscles underneath his shirt. It's ok to let myself feel like this now, when he's sleeping, and we're both safe, and I can pretend that he doesn’t really hate me and that I don't have to always act like I really hate him.

He rolls over again and now his forehead is wrinkled and his fingers are grabbing at the edge of his sheets and something in my heart starts to beat too fast. He turns again, then back, thrashing softly and then shaking his head violently from side to side.

I get up and walk over to his bed, unsure of what to do. He's had nightmares before. The first time, I woke him. He was crying, and furious. I would've been too. “Are you ok?” I had asked. I was scared. Scared of the sounds he had made. Scared that I cared that much. Scared that I was revealing too much with my question.

“Fuck’s it to you?” was all he had said that time, still half asleep, rubbing his fists into his red eyes and breathing deeply. I saw him dig his nails into his palms to calm himself down. I didn't know other people did that besides me.

I was hurt, and covered it with a cold “nothing. Except that I have to share a fucking bedroom with you and I can't sleep with you making that noise. So shut it.” He got dressed in silence and left the room. I sat there for hours, not sleeping, wondering where he was. If he was ok. What made him cry out like that at night. I must have fallen asleep at some point. He was back by the time I woke up for class the morning. He never mentioned it and neither did I. We just ignored each other more fiercely than ever.

After that, I kept earplugs near my bed. My own dreams are bad enough. I don’t need someone else's to contend with. Especially someone who hates me. And whom I nevertheless can't seem to help but love stupidly. Pointlessly. Endlessly.

He lets out a whimper so tortured I think I'm going to break. Then he whimpers again and starts crying, and I stand frozen. I should just put in my earplugs and shut him out. But I can't, after tonight. After the glimpse I've had into who he might be. When I know that the nightmare might be my fault this time.

I don’t think he always cries in his sleep, but I don’t really know. His crying gets harder and then he's shaking and saying no, no, no, please, no, please, I'm sorry, no, don't, I won't. Nonononononono.

My heart is beating frantically now and I hate myself for just standing there but I don’t know what to do. I find myself kneeling at the side of his bed, careful not to touch him, trying to somehow think at him, urging him with my mind to wake up, assuring him in my mind that he's ok, it's just a dream.

Then he starts screaming. Actually screaming. This definitely doesn't usually happen. And I can't take it any more and I don't care what the consequences will be. I put my hands on his shoulders, gently, and I lean my face so my mouth is near his ear and I whisper to him that it's ok, that he's ok, that I'm here, that I won't let anything hurt him, that he can sleep and I'll watch and he'll be safe. And I wish so badly this it was true. That it could be true, that he could want that from me, that I could be allowed to give that to him.

I'm crying too now and moving my hand across his face, through his hair, smoothing it back. And he starts to calm down, his face softens for a moment but then twists again and he grips my hands so tightly that I think there will be bruises on them tomorrow. I put my arms around him and murmur quiet things into his perfect ear. I think he's still asleep. I stay where I am until he relaxes suddenly into me and I'm holding him and he's shaking and I keep holding him and telling him it's ok until he's fully calm and clearly sleeping deeply.

I hold him for a while longer until I feel myself falling asleep too and then I move back in a panic. I can't fall asleep here, at his side. I can't make things worse between us than they already are. I can't lose what little I have of him.

I have no idea if he'll remember any of this in the morning. Or whether he'll only remember my earlier words. My poking at the scab he's built over whatever it was that made him look like a lost puppy, when I mentioned his family. I'm not sure which I hope for, his remembering or his forgetting.

So I move quietly back to my own bed and fall asleep to the steady sound of his breath and the soothing sight of his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Sleeping, breathing. Living.

 

**_December 21st_ **

**Simon**

Baz is acting like less of an asshole today. I have no idea why, but it's nice, so I'm not complaining. He was almost chatty this morning, suggesting that if we're going to be stuck with each other over the break, we may as well make the best of it.

He left before I could ask him what exactly he meant. I shake my head and laugh at the idea of the two of us grabbing a beer or going out for cocoa. Then I try to stop my thoughts as they wander down other paths. The two of us holding hands at the movies, ice skating in Central Park, holding each other when one of us falls… I’m quite sure that's not what he had in mind, and I’m glad he isn't here to see the blush creeping up my face.

 

**Baz**

I don't know what I was thinking this morning when I proposed a truce over the winter break. A truce? After he's spent the past three months following me around, trying to catch me slipping up. It’s bad enough that he was the one to get me thrown out of the dorm last year. Though I know that probably saved my life. Still. Self righteous do-gooder. With blue eyes that seem to look right through me. With long fingers and broad shoulders and… Time to stop this train of thought. I'm sure he's already forgotten that I said anything.

But when I get back to the room, Simon has a whole list of activities planned for me to choose from. He looks… nervous? Does he actually want to spend time with me? Doesn't he hate me? I start to make fun of his earnest list, but I manage to stop myself before I say anything more than “what the fuck is this, Snow?” I watch his face darken at my snide tone, at my sneering mouth and mocking eyebrow.

He blinks in the sudden silence that's left when I stop myself mid-insult. He was clearly expecting me to go on, he was prepared for my mockery. I feel hurt for a second and then indignant and finally amused. This was a test. To see if I meant it, about being friends instead of enemies for a week or two over the break. I didn't know he had it in him. And now I've called his bluff. Good. Let's see where he goes with this now.

 

**Simon**

He reacts exactly the way I expect, and I feel simultaneously smug and disappointed. But then he stops mid sentence, before he's actually said anything cruel. His sneer has faded too and he's looking at me strangely. Watching me. It's unnerving. Then he just says with a shrug, “sure. You choose.”

Could he possibly want to actually spend time with me? Impossible. So what's he playing at? Fine. He wants to play? I decide to call his bluff. And that is how I end up with a date to go ice skating with my creepy snobby handsome brilliant ass of a roommate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. September 5th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in time to the day they move into their dorm room.

_September 5th_

**Baz**

I can't believe that I'm a senior and I have a fucking roommate. It's my own fault, not that I'll ever admit that to anyone. I screwed up last semester. My family would only let me come back if I agreed to live in a dorm, and the dorm would only agree to let me back on the condition that I lived in the same suite as the RA. And the only room left was a double. So I'll probably be stuck with some second year asshole for my last bloody year of college.

**Simon**

I'm pretty sure I'm the only senior in the history of Columbia to have a roommate. I'd been living in a dirt cheap illegal sublet on 110th for the past two years, and the landlord finally caught on in July, so I didn't have many choices. It's not that bad. I know I'm lucky to have a dorm to fall back on. So I'm not complaining.

That is, until I see who my roommate is.

**Baz**

I walk into my room intending to ignore my roommate, whomever he may be. But it’s harder than I expect, because he's staring at me with an open look of raw distrust, and something else. Anger, fear, panic. What the fuck? He must not be a second year, after all, if he knows who I am by sight.

I sneer at him, to consolidate whatever he thinks he knows about me, and then quickly stow my boxes under my bed and get the hell out of there.

Why does everything have to be even worse than I imagine, when I work so hard to imagine only the worst?

**Simon**

Basilton fucking Pitch. Of course that would be my roommate. I recognize him immediately, but his sneer is impersonal, so I'm pretty sure he hasn't recognized me. Yet.

I thought he’d dropped out. I thought he'd been kicked out, actually. Apparently they'll kick you out of the dorms for smoking pot but not for cooking crack on the stovetop.

I know the whole story because Agatha was one of his suite-mates. They lived in one of the fancier dorms, with a large living space and kitchen at the center and individual rooms branching off around the sides like buds off a vine.

A few weeks into classes, there started to be a strange, ghastly smell in the suite, so bad that they had to leave the windows open. Even as the weather got colder. Even as it began to snow. Pigeons would fly in through the open window and make nests under the furniture. One pigeon actually laid eggs under the common room couch. It was a whole scene.

The smell remained a mystery for weeks. Then one day, in my symbolic logic seminar, the door opened ten minutes into class and the smell was suddenly there. I glanced up quickly and saw Baz. He looked terrible. Pale as a ghost. Eyes rimmed in red. He looked like a vampire, all teeth and bones.

I'd only seen him once or twice before, even though I practically lived in Agatha's room that year. He kept to himself. She’d told me once when I asked that he was some uber rich kid that she vaguely knew from Fieldston, which made sense because only the extremely wealthy kids could afford to live in that dorm.

Anyway, he walks into class looking like death not even warmed over and it all suddenly clicked into place. The secrecy, the smell. He was an addict. An addict in expensive black clothes that he wore like armor.

Our professor looked at him for a moment and said “oh, Baz, have you had mono? You look like you've been sick. Is that why you've missed so many weeks of class?” I couldn't believe what an idiot she was being. (I found out later that his mother used to be a dean here, and she and our ancient logic professor knew each other.) Handing him that excuse on a silver platter. Like everything else in his life, no doubt. He went with it smoothly.

“Yes, it's been dreadful. My apologies for missing so much of your class, but I do plan to catch up as quickly as possible.”

“Of course, of course,” she shushed him, as the rest of us groaned inwardly. “You hardly seem well enough to be trying to catch up now, take whatever time you need…” and he was out the door again with a sad kind of smirk still lingering on his face.

I ran back to Agatha’s room immediately after class to tell her what I'd discovered. Agatha grudgingly came along when I insisted that we had to tell Holly, their RA. But Holly just said something noncommittal like, “I have a lot of stuff due for classes right now so let's talk about this in a couple of weeks, ok?” Agatha nodded, relieved, and we left. But I was dumbfounded.

At Columbia, the resident advisors were juniors or seniors who got free housing in exchange for organizing pizza study breaks and telling kids off for smoking pot. They're not exactly trained social workers. So I shouldn't've been surprised when she just looked annoyed at the news that there was a serious addict in her particular set of children of the rich and powerful.

And I wasn't surprised. I was horrified. Shocked. Agatha thought I was overreacting, but I thought it was insane for Holly to dismiss us when we told her that one of the students she was responsible for could OD at any moment, that he was a danger to himself and others… Agatha just rolled her eyes at me. She did that a lot, towards the end of our relationship.

One night, I saw Baz standing at the stove in the kitchen. It was like 3 am. I was heading back to my apartment because I had a 5 am shift that day at the bakery where I worked. (Working at a bakery was great. I can do a full shift before classes start. And it’s quiet, and it always smells good. Plus, Ebb gives me fresh cranberry muffins for breakfast. As many as I can eat. Which is a lot.)

Anyway, Baz. 3 am. Kitchen stove. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and he was heating something in a spoon over an open flame. I was too distracted in the moment to care that he was using the dorm kitchen to cook crack. I was busy staring at his bare torso and wondering how long anyone could possibly survive when they were that thin.

I started to wonder (only half jokingly) if maybe he really was a vampire. He was so pale, it seemed entirely plausible that he’d burst into flame if he came in contact with sunlight. He was staring into the flames as though in the middle of performing some dark blood rite. Which I guess he was, in a way.

He was so lost in whatever was consuming him that he didn't even notice me staring before I slipped out the front door.

I was really shaken up, and suddenly scared for him. It was the first time I was worried about whether he'd be ok, instead of just pissed off that he was turning Agatha’s dorm into a pigeon roost.

I tried to remind myself that he was an angry rich asshole who smirked by default. Who spent more on a pair of jeans than I earned in three months. Who probably hung out with the same bored rich private school kids who mugged me freshman year.

But it didn't work. Because it didn't matter. No one should have to look like that. No one should be that close to death when they've barely hit twenty. I felt sad for him, and scared. And determined to help.

I made an appointment with the house dean. Agatha wouldn't go with me this time. She said it was my superman complex acting up, and we got into a whole fight about it. About whether needing to help people and wanting to fix things made me a narcissistic freak (her pov) or just made me human (my pov, obviously). We fought a lot last year. Which probably had something to do with her dumping me in June.

Where was I. Yeah, the dean. She took the whole thing more seriously than the RA. She thanked me for letting her know, and assured me that she would handle it. I briefly felt better.

A couple of weeks went by, and nothing happened. The smell was still there, so I assumed Baz was, too.

I went to talk to the dean again. She wouldn't tell me anything. She said that I'd done the right thing in telling her, and that it was no longer my concern. She looked at me as though waiting for me to quietly leave her office. As if it didn't matter that I desperately needed to know if he was going to be ok.

I was furious. When I get angry, I get kind of stubborn. And kind of, well, stupid. Reckless. I try my best never to get angry. But sometimes it just happens. I blow up.

So I shouted at the dean. Something along the lines of, how could it no longer be my concern that Agatha’s suite-mate was slowly killing himself. And, what kind of person wouldn't care what happened. Something like that.   
  
The dean thought it was strange that I was so invested. I thought it was strange for her to think it was strange. How could I possibly not be invested? Who the fuck becomes a house dean if they don't think people should be invested in the safety and well-being of the people around them?

She was not impressed by my analysis of her character defects. She insisted it was a privacy issue, and wouldn't accept my argument that it had ceased being private when he started cooking crack on a stovetop in the dorm.

She wouldn't give me a timeline for what would happen next. She wouldn't tell me what she was going to do to help him. All she told me was that I needed to leave her office. Now. Or she would take disciplinary action.

I managed to tamp down my anger and get out of there before things got too out of control. But I started going out of my mind with anxiety.

I was certain that one day I'd come by to see Agatha and find his corpse on the couch, suspended by hidden springs and worn out upholstery right over the pigeons and their tiny, fragile eggs. I started looking for Baz everywhere. I came by the suite to look for him more often than I came to see Agatha.

The not-knowing was killing me. I didn't know what kind of time we had- could he die at any moment? Should I be organizing 24 hour vigils?

I went to the student health services and told one of the doctors the whole story, asking how long Baz had (not using his name, obviously), and what I could do to help. But the doctor was certain that I was talking about myself, and kept insisting that I couldn't help my “friend” if I didn't first admit that I had a problem. It was insane.

Agatha said I was the one who was insane. She said I was obsessed. She accused me of caring more about Baz than I cared about her. I mean, I can see now why she thought that. But it was totally different. She wasn't dying. Wasn't slowly killing herself.

One day, in late April, Baz was gone. Just, gone. I heard he'd entered rehab but I didn't know for sure. It had tortured me all this time, not knowing what happened to him. Not knowing if I'd done enough, or if I'd done too much. I was obsessed, and powerless. Agatha and I made it through the semester. But when June came and went and I still couldn't let it go, she finally gave up on me.

And now, here he was. He didn't stay in the room for more than like five seconds, but it was definitely him. The thing is, I still didn't know. Was he ok? He didn't smell like neglected filth and rotting flesh anymore, which I took as a good sign. But he was still painfully pale, painfully thin. He still looked like an old-school vampire, with his jet black hair swept high off his perfect forehead, revealing an almost comical widow’s peak. And he definitely still knew how to make me feel invisible with nothing more than a smirk and the smallest lift of his perfect eyebrow.

**Baz**

I finally figured out my roommate’s name. Simon Snow. Which explains the hostility. I'd heard that he was the one who'd turned me in to the dean. I don't even know how he knew me, let alone why he had enough of a grudge against me to go to the dean. He certainly wasn't one of my suite-mates. He's not on the level of wealth or fame that comes with the address. I’d never really cared enough to find out before now.

But now I’ll have to live with him, day after day. After day. Every single day, I'll have to wake up to his perfect, nondescript blue eyes, his unreasonably appealing mop of bronze curls, and the gratuitous scattering of moles across his warm skin. I’ve always had a weakness for moles.

I start asking around, to see what I can find out about Simon Snow. It turns out that he only knew me because he was dating Agatha Wellbelove. Curious now, I do some more digging around. I can't find out anything about him. About his past, or his family, or even where he's from. I can’t find anything to explain how the hell he came to be dating one of the most beautiful, famous, wealthy girls in the world.

Agatha's a celebrity even to the rest of us, whose mere wealth and power can't compete with her pedigree (movie star for a father, not-so-minor royal for a mother).

What I do find is a trove of articles written by or about Simon. His causes, his protests, his fights against injustice. And not just in the school paper. The New York Times did a thing on the future of our country as heralded by current university students, and there was a whole paragraph about him. The article was titled Heroes of Tomorrow. It was nauseating.

Wellbelove must be into good guys. And Snow is apparently the goodest guy ever to walk the earth. And no, that's not bad grammar. Being filled with goodness isn't the same as being the best. Which I should know, because in almost everything I do, I'm the best. And I'm pretty sure there isn't an ounce of good left in me. If there ever had been.

At least, I used to be the best. I'm fighting tooth and nail to be the best again this year. My grades from last spring were all dismissed and the semester was treated as a leave of absence. Not common protocol here, but my family isn’t common. And people don't say no to my father. And Columbia got a new science building out of the deal. Just another inspiring moment in the lofty realms of the Academy.

I can understand why Snow would hate me. I would hate me too, under the circumstances. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I hate myself anyway. But that doesn't excuse it in others. So I'm going to hate him right back. Should be interesting. I bet no one’s ever hated him before.

 

 


	3. September 5th, four and a half years earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last day of summer and the first day of 12th grade. Penny makes her first real appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Instead of headmaster, Davy is governor of some southwestern state, where Simon grows up.)

_September 5 th, four and a half years earlier_

_12 th grade_

 

**Simon**

School starts on Tuesday. It’s Sunday night. I just have to get through tomorrow. Monday. Labor Day. Then I'll be back in a world where other people see me every day. A world that has Penny in it. One more day. One long day. I can’t let myself think about Tuesday. I figured out years ago that thinking about the world of school when I was trapped in the world of the summer is a mistake. It's too painful. It makes it infinitely harder to get through the months I spend alone with my father if I let myself remember that there's a different world I could be in. If I let myself wonder what I did wrong, to end up in this world. If I let myself wonder about why I can't stay in Penny's world. Why she can, but I can't. It hurts too much to think about.

So, I have this list. A list of all the things I love about school. A list of things that exist out there in that other world, the one inhabited by other people. A list of things I don’t usually think about until the first bus ride on the first morning of school.

But ‘usual’ isn’t cutting it this year. Nothing is usual. This summer has been worse than usual. My dad gets weird in the summer. With no interruptions from anyone. Neighbors, kids, teachers. With no one to notice if I'm not around, the alternate worlds he creates around me have time to grow and solidify. Behind closed doors. When he has me completely in his control.

There were years before I started school. When it was always summer. He used to whisper to me in bed about how he was going to kill me. The same way I imagine other parents telling kids a bedtime story. Sitting at the side of my bed, talking softly, soothingly. Calmly laying out all the options. Poisoning my food. Smothering me in my sleep. Holding my head underwater in the tub. Slitting my throat in the yard where, he would explain, it wouldn't be messy because of the soil. Locking me in the garage with the car running. 

That game, the describing game, worked spectacularly well when I was littler. I was always worrying about when it was going to happen. At bath time tonight? In _this_ tub? At breakfast this morning? _This_ bowl of corn flakes? Was there going to a warning first? A reason? Could I avoid it? If I was better, would he stop? If I figured out what I was doing wrong. If I figured out how to be better. Would he just, would it just, would it all stop?

Every day I was sure I was going to die when I did something wrong. And the rules of right and wrong changed without notice. Until I'd beg him to lock me in the closet or to not let me eat or make me sleep on the cold dirt floor of the basement or anything, anything, just not slit my throat. Until I was making up my own punishments in a desperate effort to avoid the death I earned every day in countless ways by the mistakes I was always, always making.

As I got older, I became aware of the limits that he operates under. He can't actually kill me. He can't actually hurt me that much, that visibly. So it's become less terrifying. And I learned how to make up stories myself, too. I pretended I was the hero of a fairy tale. I was a prince who'd been kidnapped by an evil wizard, and the king and queen were searching for me. They would find me and rescue me and the evil wizard would be crushed. I was a spy. I was a secret agent and I'd joined some secret ghost division of the CIA. I was being put through some top-secret training that would turn me into a deadly weapon. My father was the general of a rebel army. We were in the middle of a desperate war that we had to win, and the only way to defeat the evil threatening the world was by sacrificing me. Stuff like that.

But it doesn't work anymore. I'm too tired to pretend. I'm too old for it to work. It takes an energy I don't have anymore. I just feel so tired. I feel so old. Now the best I can do is disappear. I wish I could actually disappear. All I can do is separate my consciousness from my body. It's gotten automatic. Sometimes I'm scared I won't know how to join them back up again. Sometimes I think I've never joined them back up. That I just die each time, and then there's a new Simon who has to be there until he gives up too. My mind is a graveyard of murdered Simons. And it's an endless source of new Simons who have to take their place.

It's not always this bad. It hasn't always been this bad. It not usually this bad. For most of the year, when I am at school every day, there's some break. Some time when we both know I don't totally belong to him. When he doesn't own me. Some years, months go by in peaceful routine. We watch TV and eat junk food and say I love you. We sleep all night and make pancakes in the mornings. He works late and I go to school and nothing much happens.

But summers. Summers have gotten worse.

I’ve started to get scared that he'll forget the rules he's bound by, in those months when no one knows where I am. What if he gets so involved in the world he’s built inside, that he forgets the world outside? I’m scared in those moments that the world outside won't be enough to hold him in check if he gets carried away. I'm never totally sure I'm going to survive the summer. So I don't let myself think about it. I don't let myself think about school. About my list.

Honestly, it's a pretty crap list. There’s only like 7 things on it, and they’re all pathetic. Except Penny. She's great. I wish the other things on my list were great too. I wish they were all wonderful, delightful things. Like kittens and ice cream cones. One day I'll have a list like that. But now I just have my list, and it's good enough. And I need my list. I really need it right now. And I'm so close. Just one more day. And it's probably technically Monday already. And this summer was so bad.

So I let my list swim into consciousness, and I go through it one by one.

1) Clipboards. The thing I like most about school is that they take attendance. Logging any day I'm late, any day I'm absent. So I can't disappear without anyone ever knowing. 

2) Peanut butter and jelly. Ironically, it’s my father's controversial new policies that make lunch at school free to everyone. No one’s parents can get in the way by not signing their kid up or not paying for lunch. Including mine. And there are always, always peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I eat like five a day. Sometimes more.

3) Artificial ingredients. In the last few years, state law has added breakfast (thanks, dad) to the meals at public schools. Usually it's a mini muffin sealed tight in some plastic space suit, a little carton of milk, and a sealed packet of apple slices. Everyone mocks the tiny packages. Everyone hates those cellophane wrappers. And it’s true. They’re bad for the environment. They're excessive. They make everything taste bad. But I love sealed plastic. I love poly-asorbic acid and yellow dye number 5. I love everything processed. Everything safe.

4) College applications. This one is relatively new, but it moves up in my list every year. Colleges have gotten so competitive, my high school has an almost endless array of extracurricular clubs you can join to pad out your application. Which means that every year there are so many more ways to not be at home. School paper. School play. Debate team. Green earth club (which also means being away on weekends, to clean up public parks or repair hiking trails). I always have somewhere I have to be, somewhere that people will notice if I'm missing.

5) School spirit. Don't get me wrong. I don’t give two fucks about school pride. But it means that they care about stuff like football and baseball and basketball. And, even more perfect for me, soccer. Important enough to have a team. Invisible enough to not make waves. If I make the team, I’ll be away most weekends at traveling games. Somewhere far away from my own house. With beds and food. With doors that lock. I’ll complain like everyone else about how smelly the bus is, how annoying it is to sit still for so long, how crappy the rooms are. But it's all a show. I love weekend games.

6) Homework. Or, more specifically, people complaining about homework. About tests and reports and deadlines. I love listening to the people around me complain. I love imagining that I'm one of them. I love pretending that school assignments are at the top of my list of worries.

7) Penny. Some things come and some things go on my list. But Penny is constant. I always save Penny for last. Penny’s been my best friend since we moved here, in ninth grade. Three years ago. She'd just moved here too. But she wasn't shy or intimidated at all about it. She walked right over to me in homeroom that first day and introduced herself. She was short and brown with these crazy pointy glasses. She had so much hair, all frizzed up around her head, and it was a flat red color that clearly came out of a bottle. Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses and her smile was so warm and mischievous that I liked her immediately.

I didn't realize at first that she was walking towards me, specifically, since I didn't know her any more than I knew anyone else. And I didn't know that she didn't know anyone either. Anyway, she walked up to me and said: I'm Penelope Bunce. You should call me Penny. And we're going to be best friends.

As it turns out, Penny is right about everything. So it should come as no surprise that she was right about this, too.

 

_Tuesday, September 7 th. First day of 12th grade_

 

 **Penny**  

I always hold my breath the first day of school, until I see Simon. I'm never totally sure he'll come back. He never tells me where he goes all summer. But wherever it is, I can't reach him. He's apparently somewhere with no cellphones or email. Which is just implausible, unless he spends the summer on the bloody moon. I don't think there's a single place left on earth where you can't check email. I like to pretend he's at a picturesque farm in rural Spain where the Internet hasn't yet arrived. I imagine him outside, swimming in creeks and eating berries right off the vine. I'm very, very sure that's not what he's actually doing. But if I can't know the truth, I might as well imagine something nice.

I see him now, across the room. He sees me too, and waves as he starts walking over. It takes a while because everyone has to slap him on the back or give him a high five, ask about football (oh, pardon, I mean _soccer_ ) and what will the school play be this year and who’s going to win the robotics competition and endless other things about the two thousand clubs he’s in.

He’s here. He’s ok. I start to let out my held breath. Until he gets a little closer and I can see how bad he looks. His eyes are too dull, his face is too pale, his lips are too dry. He always looks bad at the start of school. By June, his skin is golden and his bones don’t show and his smile is real. But this year he looks even worse than usual. He's wearing long sleeves and jeans even though it's still like 90 degrees out. His smile is too big for his face. He's so, so thin. And he's grown like four inches. He looks all stretched out. I want to run over and grab him. I want to grab him and hold on to him and never let him go. But I'm not a complete idiot. So I just smile and wave back and wait for him to reach me.

He still looks like Simon, though. He still looks like the kid with friendly eyes and messy hair that I chose as my best friend on my first day in this oh-so-American high school.

We'd just moved from London. Bad enough to be in America, we had to be in some nothing town in the middle of nowhere. Going from London to Cross River was like falling into an abyss. I made up my mind that first day that I wasn’t going to be scared of anything. Because, of course, I was in fact terrified of everything. So I dyed my hair a crazy red, I picked out an extra-pointy pair of glasses, and I decided that I was going to find my best friend on the first day. I only need one friend. (I’m ok with two. I don't really have a clue what to do with more than that.)

I wasn't sure how I was going to choose this best friend. And I'd assumed it would be a girl. But I walked into the classroom that first period on that first day, and saw Simon. Looking as lost and scared as I was trying not to look. But somehow, still radiating something. Something that kept some people away but drew more people close. I could tell by the shape of his sky blue eyes and the openness of his smile that he was one of those people with forty friends, but no best friend. Except, he was going to have a best friend after all, and it was going to be me. I chose him, and to my (well hidden) surprise he just went with it. Which more or less sums up our relationship over the past three years.

I can't stop myself from hugging him when he gets close enough. I can feel his ribs through his shirt. I feel sick. I want to force him to come home with me. I don’t want to let him ever go home again. I can feel him tense up as I wrap my arms around his back. So I let go. But I can't lie to myself about this anymore. I'm not sure why I lied to myself about it for the past three years. But no more. He's looking at me cautiously now, and I guess my distress must show on my face. I see his face start to close off. Which is so much worse. So I get a fucking grip on myself, and I smile at him. His shoulders relax and his face visibly softens and he smiles and hugs me back. And I keep smiling and the smile turns real. Because he's here. Alive and ok, and here. With me.

And because I have a plan for this year now. My plan is to get him the hell away from here. I know his father won't actually let him go. So I'm going to help him find somewhere to hide. We're going to get to graduation together, and then I'm going to help him disappear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to re-read this with an eye towards what wouldn't make sense if you don't live in my head. Like, which allusions are just not obvious enough. I like to imply or show rather than spelling things out, but I don't want it to just be confusing. Anyway. In this chapter, I think the thing that might be confusing is why Simon loves artificial preservatives so much. And it's because at home, he often is only permitted to eat things that will make him sick, from food poisoning or direct poisoning. This comes up in a later chapter too. So, foods that are carefully pre-wrapped to prevent tampering, those are safe, and he loves them.


	4. Sept 7, four and a half years earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case we needed more reasons to hate David and love Penny, here are some.

_September 7th, still the first day of 12th grade_

**Simon**

Penny walks over to me during third period, which we both have free. I’m outside, sitting on the grass in the sun and feeling pretty great. I'm at school. Penny's here. I made it. Now all I have to not-think about is what happens when school is done. Done forever. Don't think about that. Don't think. Not now. Now is is good. Now is fucking great. Stick with now.

Penny sits down next to me with a determined look on her face and I smile. She always has some sort of plan at the start of each year. And she always accomplishes it. Always. Last year, she decided we need a daily student paper, not just a weekly. She organized meetings, sent around petitions, recruited students as writers and photographers, organized fund raising like bake sales and skate-a-thons. By March the paper was running 3 days a week. By May it was daily.

I wonder what this year’s project is going to be. I smile again as she sits next to me and I lean into her shoulder. Apparently, her hair is blue this year.

“How's your first day so far?” she asks.

“Heavenly,” I reply without thinking, and then freeze.

Wrong answer. And Penny's too smart. I am pretty sure she must have figured something out about my real life by now. But after I shut her down the first few times she tried to ask about it freshman year, she hasn't crossed that line again. My role in our unspoken silence (is that an oxymoron or a tautology? I'd ask Penny, but it’s not the kind of thing that school-Simon would ask, and I've already said one weird thing) is never to say or do anything that would blatantly confirm something’s wrong.

Saying school is heavenly isn't a confession exactly, but it's too close for comfort. I'm getting sloppy. But it sucks. I just want to be able to hang out with my best friend without watching everything I say. I want to ask her random grammar questions. I want to exist without hiding and lying all the time. And I just. I'm so tired. I’ve gotten so tired.

Sometimes, I think about telling her. Or maybe it's more like, I wonder what would happen if I stop not-telling her. But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that telling her the whole truth isn't an option. And any half truth would be a lie I have to maintain anyway. And fully lying has its benefits. When I'm around the people I lie to, I'm someone else. Someone for whom the lies are true. Someone not too smart and not too dumb, not too good and not too bad. Someone with a normal life and normal problems.

Telling the truth doesn't work out well for me. I've already tried. Just once, and not even close to the whole truth. But that was enough.

It was second grade. I was 7. My teacher’s name was Ms. Goodfriend,which I took seriously. As though we were characters in one of my stories, and our names meant something. I loved her immediately.

Plus, she was genuinely nice. She had a quiet voice. She moved carefully, gracefully. She never made me knock over all my pencils and books in surprise or fear. That had happened a lot in first grade. I would startle every time my first grade teacher walked up to my desk too quickly or said my name too loudly.

But Ms. Goodfriend never did those things. And Ms. Goodfriend loved stories as much as I did. She read to us in class and she gave us books to read at home. We got to write our own stories, too. I was good at that. I'd had a lot of practice.

Ms. Goodfriend told me she loved my stories. She would draw a smiley face and write something like “great work!” or “nice job!” on the top of the paper in red ink. Sometimes I got a little gold or silver star. I know now that this is a pretty generic thing for teachers to do. But at the time, I thought it was special. I thought it was just for me. I saved every star in the bottom of my sock drawer (which I still believed was an impenetrable vault). The praise was like a drug. I felt thrilled, and a little manic. I felt brave.

We had been having school assemblies about bullying all year. The message was unambiguous. Bullying was bad. If you see someone else being bullied, you should help them. If someone is bullying you, you should tell a teacher.

So, one day, I finally worked up the courage to ask Ms. Goodfriend (in a voice so quiet I was half hoping she wouldn't hear me) if I could tell her something. She smiled and said yes, of course. And so I started to tell her. About the closets and the pain. About being sick, about the bedtime stories. I hadn't told her very much before her face turned dark.

She was angry. I remember my thoughts so clearly. I thought she was angry with my dad and she was going to tell him to stop being a bully. And then he was going to stop. And then I'd be happy and my dad would be happy too and he'd say I'm sorry and I'd say I forgive you just like in all the school assemblies.

I stopped talking, though, when I saw her face go hard. Then she said, in a quiet angry voice I’d never heard her use before. She said it was wrong to lie. She said it was bad to make up stories.

I still didn't really get it. I asked if she was going to tell my dad to stop. She told me my dad was a good, good person. That everyone knew it. (This was all long before I knew anything about teachers unions and state politics.) She said I should be grateful because some people don't have such nice mommies and daddies. She said I should be ashamed of myself for telling such terrible lies. She said she would have to call my father, to tell him I was telling lies at school.

I hadn't considered this possible outcome to our conversation. I was 7. I didn’t really know anything about people. But I was learning.

I started to cry. I asked her to please, please not call my dad. I promised I'd do anything, I'd be better, but just please, not to call my dad. I remember thinking, this is what is important with adults. Always promise to stop being bad. Because I was bad. She said so. It wasn't my dad’s fault. She said so. My dad was good. She said so. So if he did bad things to me it was because I was bad. She said so. It was my fault after all. My father was right. He was right and I was bad and that's why he had to do those things to me. It was terrible to know this for certain. My teacher was right. My dad was right. And I was wrong. Terribly, evilly, shamefully wrong.

I knew I had to be better. But. But I also knew I never would be. I'd tried and tried and nothing I did ever turned out right. I was too wrong. But no one could know. I didn't want anyone to know about me, how bad I was. And I didn't want my father to know that I had thought maybe I wasn't bad. That I had thought maybe I was good and he was bad. He would be so angry. I really really didn't want him to know. I was sick with fear.

Her voice got gentler when I started crying. She said that this was a bad way for me to be, but that she wasn't angry because she knows I am like this because I had no mommy. I remember that word, so jarring. Mommy. It wasn't a word that belonged to me. It was a baby word, for other people. People who deserved not only mothers, but mommies.

She told me I was trying to get attention. And something was wrong with me. For making up such bad stories just to get attention. She had to tell my father, tell the principal, tell the school psychologist and the social worker. She was going to tell everyone. She said it was so they could fix me. So I wouldn't be so bad anymore. I remembering wondering, could they fix me? If they fix me, and I turn good, will he stop hurting me?

But the wondering didn’t feel like hope. Every word she said was a stone, dragging me down. Every sentence was a layer of stones, sealing me up. Her judgement was a wall of stone, crushing me with fear as it fell on me.

This happened on a Friday. I was in a state of unremitting panic all weekend. Not knowing if she would call. Not knowing what my father knew. Imagining what would happen if he knew I'd told someone our secret.

But the weekend ended and Monday came, and my father wasn't acting any differently towards me. The weekend was actually one of the better weekends. But it felt like one of the worse ones, because the fear was so suffocating. It hurt to breathe.

I can see now, looking back, that my father knew everything. That my fear, my not knowing, was better (or worse) than anything he could do to me. He let Monday go by. And Tuesday. By Wednesday I started to think maybe it was going to be ok.

That night at dinner, the phone rang. It was her. He put it on speaker so I would have to hear. She was calling about setting the date for the big meeting with me and my dad and the school psychologist and the principal and the social worker. It was clear they'd already talked. Last Friday, right after I had talked to her. He knew everything He'd just been waiting.

My head was kind of buzzing. I remember staring at my plate and concentrating really hard on not throwing up. Sometimes when I threw up, he would make me eat it. So I was very, very good at not throwing up. Then I heard him tell her that we’d have to push the meeting to next week, because I’d come down with a fever. No, I wouldn’t be in school the next day. And he’d probably keep me home on Friday, just to be safe.

His words froze me in place. He was going to keep me at home. Not let me go back to school. Tomorrow or the next day or the next day or the next. Four days. My insides turned to ice.

He switched off the speaker and kept talking on the phone. I could hear only his half of the conversation. Yes, and thank you for being so considerate and patient. Yes, you take care too. Yes, yes. Of course. My pleasure. That's very kind of you to say. We’ll see you next week. Bye.

Then he hung up the phone. And he looked at me. And he smiled.

I don’t remember anything that happened after that. The next four days are just missing from my memory, like a file someone took from its folder and destroyed. That was the first Simon to end up in my mental graveyard, leaving me with no memory of what had happened to him.

I know that we had the meeting the following week. I know that afterwards, I went back to school. I was in the same class, with the same kids, the same teacher. But everything was different. I wasn't the same Simon.

I was taken out of class to talk to the psychologist every week. The other kids laughed and said I was crazy. I mostly stopped talking. I was terrified about how much more harm my words might do. I had no friends, anyway. I was too strange. Wrong.

I learned how to lie. And lie, and lie and lie. With my words and my face and my body. With my own feelings and thoughts. I learned to lie until I believed it myself. Until it might not have been a lie after all.

After a couple of years, the other kids stopped calling me names. I started making friends. I started passing for normal. I built other-Simon, school-Simon. I made him strong. I made him someone I could rely on. I hated the other Simon, home-Simon. I think I hated him as much as my father did. I hated him as much as the other kids used to. I wasn't him. I was school Simon. I was ok. I was going to be ok.

It worked. It still works. But I get tired now, which didn’t used to happen. I get tired and forget to focus. I say stupid things like heavenly.

I'm tired, and school is ending, What happens to school Simon when that happens? Then who am I? Who will I be?

I wish I could tell Penny. But she's best friends with school-Simon. Not real Simon. So I change the subject.

 

**Penny**

I can see him freeze as soon as he says it. Heavenly. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed that it was a strange word, if he didn’t freeze immediately afterwards. He tries changing the subject.

“I know that look, Penny. Spill it. What’s this year’s plan?”

I don’t know how to tell him that my plan is to help him disappear. I should probably tell him now. This was the exact opening I needed.

But. I can't do it. I can't ruin his first, heavenly day. Let him have one day where he doesn't have to worry about what happens next. He looked so happy before I walked over and asked my stupid question. He was so relaxed. Besides, I shouldn't actually spring my plan on him until it's a little more thought through. I have only the rough outlines of it.

I'll start in the middle and build out from there. Graduation. That's the deadline for when everything has to be in place. And that's when everything will be set in motion. Before that, he’ll set false trails and prepare the true one. After that, he'll change his name and disappear. The rest of the details we’ll flesh out together, later.

We have to make everything real, so his father really won't know where he went. With a sinking feeling, I realize that means that I can't know either. Simon has to disappear from my world if he's going to disappear from his father's. If my plan works (my plans always work) then there will be police and questions when he's gone. I'm going to have to be convincingly devastated by the fact that he's gone. Which will only work if I know that I may actually never see him again. I have to be sure I don't say or do anything to give away where he is. Which is guaranteed to work if I genuinely don't know.

Unless we disappear together? But that's a bad idea. Twice as many ways for it to go wrong. And I'd never be able to stay hidden. I love my family. It would destroy them if I disappeared.

There must be some way. I'll have to figure it out. And if not, I'll have to be willing to let him go. For now. I'll find him again. I'll find him when everything is safe. We won't be apart forever. Life can't be that unfair.

This can wait for later. He's not gone yet. For now, I can have him. I settle myself next to him and say, “the plan is still classified. I have some more details to work out. Anyway, I’m jealous of the whole heavenly thing. I want to sit out here feeling quietly transcendent, too.”

I take out the five snickers bars and two boxes of donuts that I always carry around in my bag. For him, though we both pretend it's not. Simon smiles. His smile is too big for his thin face. I’m going to make sure that he never looks this bad again. But even like this, his smile warms me through. I lean into him and he puts his arm around me and we just sit here quietly, eating donuts and laughing.

I feel better than I have in a while. Sitting here with Simon. Knowing I'm going to help him escape, finally letting myself think about him without hiding or lying to myself. It's like my brain is awake for the first time in a long time. I wonder how much energy and space it's taken up in my mind all these years. I mean the pretending. Because now that it's gone, it's like my heart has room to breathe again.

It must be a million times worse for Simon. I try to imagine what the world looks like through his eyes, and fail. But I can't fail. I need to know how my words will sound to him. When I tell him to run. And I need to know what will happen to him if it works. If he makes it. If, come June, he ends up totally alone in some new place. What is he going to be feeling when he gets there? I need to figure out what the pitfalls will be, so we’ll have everything in place to make sure he'll be ok. As ok as he could be, at first. And then better.

I'm good at research. There have to be books on what it's like when you grow up like this. It's like a chemistry problem. I need a model of what it feels like to be Simon. So I can alter the molecular structure and generate a better reality for him. I want his heart to have room to breathe, too. I want to give him back himself, his whole self. I want him to be whole. Even if it means I have to lose him to do it.


	5. December 22nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first date. Or really, it's just a dare. Right? And they're not flirting at all. Nope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the story's present

_December 22nd_

**Baz**

I wake up with a vague feeling that something has changed. I let myself float in and out of sleep. Now I feel like nothing has changed but I feel excited about something. Simon's face dances in my mind, like it does every morning. But today it's different. My eyes open as I remember our conversation last night. Our date, today. What the fuck did we do? Isn't this how wars start? Everyone bluffing, no one backing down?

I find myself trying to imagine a plausible disaster that would save me from myself. I can't pray for snow, that would be too ironic for real life. Besides, mere snow is unlikely to shut the rink down. A flood, then. A biblical plague of hail. Anything to save me from following through on this insane dare with Snow.

But no such luck. It's a perfect winter day, crisp and sunny. No escape plan is going to present itself. I've never had much luck, and today is no exception. Or maybe it's the other way around. I have no idea what I actually wish for. Why do I let this boy turn my world upside down?

It's weird just being nice to each other, instead of at each other's throats. As we chat and move around our room, getting ready to go out, it's hard to remember why it's so important to be cruel to him.

I need to protect myself from him, because he is out to get me. Right? He turned me in. Told everyone about how far down the rabbit hole I'd fallen. That had to have been retaliation of some sort. For something. Didn't it?

But months of living with him in a state of unrelenting suspicion (not to mention unrelenting lust) has turned up nothing. It turns out there really are people who would talk to the dean about a stranger purely with the intention of helping them. Well, let me amend that statement a bit. I can't vouch for ‘people,’ plural. But there's at least one person who would. And who did. Simon.

Implausible as it seems, he really is just a good guy. The quintessential Good Guy. A really good guy that I dream about every night and then hide from all day behind biting words and sneering lips that hurt me more than him.

**Simon**

It's a short walk to Central Park. The blanket of snow makes even the filthiest streets in Manhattan glow with a kind of inner magic. Sometimes on days like this, it almost feels like I do have magic, something bubbling inside me pushing to break free.

I used to pretend I had magic, when I was a kid. Probably everyone does. When things with Davy would get out of hand, I'd close my eyes and imagine the magic building inside me until it just exploded and obliterated everything around me, leaving me in the center of a giant crater of destruction.

Needless to say, that never happened. I had to build that crater slowly, rock by fucking rock. But I did it. I got away. And here I am, walking down the street beside a blindingly handsome guy who doesn't seem to hate me anymore. So fuck you, Davy.

I can't believe Baz and I are actually walking down the street together. I thought he'd back out. Or keep up the aggressive competition aspect of this little outing. But he's just being… nice. And talking to him is kind of nice. Nicer than I expected. My mouth is carrying on a conversation independent of my head. Everything feels so easy. We talk about nothing. We laugh as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

We’re walking to Lasker Rink. His suggestion. It's at the northern edge of Central Park. It's a public pool in the summer, and a skating rink in the winter. More importantly, it's where normal people go to skate. I'd expected him to want to go down to Wolman, or even further down to Rockefeller Center or Bryant Park, where the rich people and tourists go. I can't tell if he's actually less of a snob than I thought, or just worried about running into someone he knows with me in tow.

Either way, I'm relieved, because Lasker is half the price of those places, and I'm bound to know at least one kid who works there so I can probably get away with paying the entrance fee but not having to pay for the skates.

We take the shortcut down the cliff through Morningside park, and Baz gives me a funny look as I say hi to half the people we pass. I explain to him that I volunteer at the PAL that's just across the park from Columbia, so I know all the kids who are out sledding.

I don’t explain that I found the PAL my first year in the city, when I was looking for donated clothes. Or that a side benefit of volunteering there is getting first pass at the mountains of stuff people drop off there.

People throw out the craziest things. Jeans and t-shirts, of course. But suits too. One time there was a Barbour coat (which I'm wearing right now, come to think of it). And hiking boots, dress shoes, sneakers. Hats, coats, scarves, ties. Shirts with holes for fucking cufflinks. The castoff clothes I wear in New York City are way nicer than anything people wore where I grew up. Life is weird that way.

**Baz**

We take St Nicholas because it cuts through the city at an angle that will take us right to Lasker. And because it's Christmas, so how can you not take St Nick to get where you're going?

There's a corner along this route that I usually avoid. It's an old supermarket that's always mobbed with homeless people who bring cans and bottles for the nickels they get from the recycling center. It's a part of life in the city, the mutual agreement of different groups of people to be invisible to one another.

Simon, oblivious to my anxiety, keeps walking straight towards the huddle of bodies on the sidewalk. And then, to my astonishment, he stops right on the corner, and is enthusiastically greeted by name by at least four of the people camped out there.

We finally walk away after a series of complex handshakes and fist bumps have been ritually carried out, and seasons greetings liberally spread around. In response to my eyebrow (I'm grateful that he lets me leave my questions unvoiced) he just shrugs. “I volunteer at a homeless shelter near here.”

Of course he fucking does. In between his five classes and three jobs and the other volunteer work I just found out he does at the PAL. What is he doing walking around with me? I'm a complete waste of humanity.

Then it strikes me that losing himself in nonstop activity and volunteerism is probably just a (much healthier) version of losing myself in drugs. We both wear masks. We both go to extremes to feel numb. We both feel like we have to atone for our existence. We match.

**Simon**

I didn't realize it would make Baz so uncomfortable to stop at the Fine Fare on the way. I can't tell exactly why, though. Maybe he's annoyed that I didn't introduce him?

But I really couldn’t. For one thing, I’m not supposed to know anyone's names. There's a lot of privacy around the shelter, because it's a designated safe zone for people trying to get out of abusive relationships. For another, I don't really want to get into a whole thing about how I got involved with the shelters to begin with.

I hadn't intended to talk to everyone for that long. But two of the women there helped me organize a toy drive, and they wanted to tell me how great it went. And then it turned into a whole conversation about which church has the best food on Christmas and it took a little longer to extricate myself than it probably should've. Great way to start the truce, by making Baz feel ignored.

So I try to make up for it by focusing on him. I can't think of anything to ask him, though. My mind’s gone blank. I hear myself asking what he's majoring in. The words escape my mouth before I can stop myself from delivering the world’s oldest, emptiest pickup line.

Baz looks at me with that fucking raised eyebrow (which I've been practicing trying to do in the mirror, which is frankly embarrassing. But how cool would it be to be able to do that?) and smirks as he replies, “what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” And I'm so taken aback by the discovery that he has a sense of humor that I stand there open mouthed for a second before we both burst out laughing.

**Baz**

Is he flirting with me? Am I flirting with him? I worry that I've misjudged the situation when he gives me a blank look of shock. Fuck. He was really asking about what I was studying. And now he thinks I'm a creep. A gay creep, coming on to his straight roommate who hates him and is trying to be nice out of pity. I’m debating whether to run now or just sprain my ankle as quickly as possible, when he bursts out laughing.

He has an amazing laugh. I never understood that phrase where someone's “face lights up” until now, because that's exactly what's happening. And his laugh has no edge of irony to protect it, not a hint of malice or sarcasm. It's just joy made tangible through sound.

It's infectious, and I find myself smiling and then laughing too. I have no idea when the last time was that I laughed like this. Probably since before my mom died. It feels good to laugh. It feels good to stand in the snow at the entrance of the world's most famous park next to Simon Snow as he tilts his head back and sings his laughter to the world.

I try to pay for both of us when we get to the rink but Simon gets this stubborn angry look that I recognize all too well. So I step back, hands raised in defeat.

“Ok, you pay then.” I say, and then add in a flash of brilliance that is more likely stupidity “you can pay for both of us, how’s that? And then tomorrow we can do something from my list, and I get to pay. Deal?”

He grins at me slyly and says “are you asking me out on another date, Basilton?”

“Only if you want me to be,” I reply coolly, though inside he's lit me up like a furnace. Even if he is just teasing (of course he's just teasing, Baz, do you think Agatha’s ex has suddenly decided he's bi?), the fantasy is so tantalizing that I'm more than willing to settle for it.

**Simon**

Not surprisingly, Baz is an amazing skater. I can't stop watching him. Neither can anyone else. I feel weirdly jealous of everyone else's glances and I speed to catch up with him. He gives me that look that I'm starting to understand is more habit than genuine derision and says “I didn't know you could skate, Snow.”

“I am the one who suggested we go skating.” I reply, trying and failing to smirk back at him. So I give up and answer honestly. “I volunteer with a bunch of kids after school at an ice rink up in 135th.” He gives me an incredulous look. “What?” I protest. “It's fun. And the kids are great.”

“I should've guessed. How else would the Hero of Tomorrow learn how to skate?” he asks with a wicked smile, then he skates off quickly before I can even react.

I speed to catch up to him and groan. “You read that? I was hoping no one had read that!” I call out as I punch him in the arm (I'm not flirting, I'm really not, I'm just… ok fine. I’m flirting).

But then the thought of the article makes me stumble for a second. I really had hoped that no one had read that, and by “no one,” I mean Davy. I was anxious for two weeks after that article came out that he would try to get in touch with me, now that he could figure out where I was.

And he did. He sent a note (hand delivered by messenger, just to show he could track me down to my fucking door now that he knew where I was going to school) that said “Good to see you following in my footsteps, Son. I’ll always know when you do.”

Which managed to be threatening and benign at the same time. One of his particular talents. He never says or does anything in public that would reveal his darker side. The side he shows only me. Everyone loves him, in fact. He's won awards for his tireless efforts to protect the vulnerable in our society.

When he finally became governor, he raised minimum wage and increased state taxes on the wealthy and was altogether heralded as a modern Robin Hood. He even dresses a little like that. Being a citizen in the state he governed was great. Being a child in the house he governed was a whole different story.

**Baz**

I speed away as soon as I mention that article, upset that I'd revealed that I read it. The opportunity to tease him about it was too hard to resist, and things felt so… friendly between us. But he's going to think I'm a stalker for having read that article about him. A creepy stalker who-

My train of thought is cut short by a playful punch in my arm and Simon groaning jokingly about hoping no one had read that. That's it. He's totally flirting with me. I can't suppress the huge grin that spreads across my face. He's grinning back at me and for a second it almost looks like we might be friends, and not just not-enemies.

But then his smile falters and his face falls and he kind of trips. I decide to believe he's tired from skating, not disgusted by my flirting, and suggest we take a cocoa break. If there's one sure way to distract Simon Snow, it's to suggest having chocolate in any form. I'm rewarded by another smile, less glorious but still welcome, and we skate off the ice.

The cocoa at the rink is some watery shit from a machine and tastes as weak as it looks. So we head off to find better cocoa and some food. Simon wants to get a hotdog (or three) from a stand. But I know too much about what goes on behind the scenes of those carts. I know to never eat anything they sell. It's probably just as bad in restaurants, but at least I don't know about it. It's hard enough for me to eat around other people as it is.

So we head to the boathouse. I've always eaten in the front restaurant that faces the water and has proper wait service. But I quickly adjust my footsteps and pray Simon didn't notice my original trajectory as I follow him around to the little stand crammed with tables in the back. Which turns out to be so much better than the restaurant. Same food, half the cost, and totally informal. No one watching you. No one looking around to see if they can spot someone more famous than you.

I’m about to order my usual salad and black coffee, when I notice that all Simon got was a cranberry muffin. Their muffins are great, but I'm fairly sure he'll still be hungry as I watch him wolf it down in two bites. I suddenly feel like a complete asshole for insisting that we come here instead of getting cheap hotdogs from a cart. It never occurred to me that money could dictate what you eat. Money never occurs to me. It’s always just been there. Like air, or water.

So I quickly adjust my order to include a large chili and three more muffins and a mountain of fries, and head back to the table where Simon is waiting.

He eyes my tray with a look of amused suspicion that I pretend not to notice. I start eating (the salad). He's just sitting and watching me. I say, with what I hope is convincing nonchalance, “well, aren't you going to have any?” He still looks suspicious, so I add inanely, “I ordered too much. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach.” Fuck. Who says that? I'm such an idiot.

But it's ok. He rolls his eyes and smiles, grabbing the extra plastic fork I made sure to put on the tray. Watching him eat is like going to the theater. The languid movement of his long throat as he swallows is almost elegant, and stands in stark contrast to the indecorous speed with which Simon is forcing it to work. I can't tell if he has an eating disorder or if he's just really, really hungry.

A strange kind of pain twists briefly in my chest at the realization that it's probably the latter. I've always scoffed at overblown tirades about the wrongs of inequality and the unjust distribution of wealth in this country, but for the first time I understand that it's not complete rhetorical bullshit.

I think of all the times I've made fun of him for going to every pizza break he can find, and what little appetite I had disappears completely as I face a truth I never accepted before.

No matter how much shit has plagued my unlucky life, I actually am as sheltered and privileged as I've been accused of being. Never by Simon, at least not directly. But by all the self righteous habitual protesters that I've always dismissed as hypocritically privileged and sheltered themselves. I still think that's true of most of them. But I'm starting to realize that just because they're hypocrites, that doesn't mean they're wrong.

**Simon**

I can't tell if Baz has an eating disorder or if he just isn’t hungry. He picks at the salad and drinks coffee. Black, but with four packs of sugar. I'm pretty sure he ordered most of the other food because he knows I can't afford more than a muffin at this place. Which starts making me really angry. But I'm also really hungry. So I make a determined effort not to care, and eat every bite. Being hungry makes me panic, and right now I'd rather be embarrassed than irrationally terrified.

He's watching me with a strange look on his face and it's making me uncomfortable so I eat as quickly as I can (which is pretty damn fast) and we head off.

It appears that I'm in charge of what we’re doing today, so I lead the way the the ramble. It's one of my favorite places in the city, with winding and intersecting paths that are easy to get lost in. We’re not exactly walking hand in hand through Central Park, but it still feels like I'm living out a half formed fantasy that I never quite knew I was having.

I'm pretty sure that he's finding excuses to touch me. Walking close enough to brush shoulders. Putting his hand on my shoulder to stop me so we can turn down a different path. Reaching out to catch me when I slip on some ice (totally not on purpose).

And every time we touch, a shiver runs through me, a rush of heat and cold utterly different from anything I ever felt with Agatha. I should feel anxious about this. I should be wondering why the hell I’m finding reasons to brush my fingers across the skin of a guy who has never made a secret of how much he hates me. Who just came with me today as a dare. Who will go right back to alternately ignoring me or mocking me at every opportunity.

But I don't feel anxious. I feel safer and happier than I can ever remember feeling. And I never want it to end.

**Baz**

We head back uptown in a comfortable silence. It's a relief not to be trying to figure out ways to insult him. Maybe I'm allowed to like him now. Not pretending to hate him frees up so much energy that I feel lighter, free somehow. I’m trying to let myself enjoy the feeling.

I’m trying not to listen to the voice that warns me against thinking he likes me back. The voice that reminds me that if I let myself be happy, the universe will balance itself out by destroying the source of that happiness. Or turning it against me. Happy is dangerous. Happy is weak. Happy is open to harm.

I don't want to listen to the voice but it speaks with such authority that I find myself already mourning the loss of something that hasn't yet come into existence.

Simon interrupts my ruminations. “So,” he asks. “What are we doing tomorrow?” And my fears fly as I smile, and turn to tease him.

**Simon**

I'm not really sure what's happening right now, but I know that I'm grinning and that my heart is singing and that I don't really want to think too much about why. Baz looks like he feels the same way. And then he doesn't. His face kind of flattens. It's not that he looks upset, so much as that he looks blank.

Maybe he's embarrassed to be walking with me. Maybe he's regretting bringing up the idea of doing something together again tomorrow. He's probably trying to figure out how to get rid of me. I should probably just do it myself, so I don't have to go through hearing say it.

I turn to speak, but I can't get the words out. The idea of not doing something together again tomorrow leaves me feeling desolate. I hadn't realized that since the moment he said it at the entrance to the rink, I've been looking forward to it.

Like, really looking forward to it. Not like looking forward to Meatball Mondays. More like looking forward to being suddenly alive. To being made new. Like looking forward to breathing underwater or being able to fly. Which is a really fucking dangerous feeling.

But such a novel one. One I never expected to feel again. One I couldn't have even told you I didn’t feel, because its absence is so complete. I have only the faintest, vaguest sort of body memory of having felt it long ago. When I was someone else. Someone whole.

So I do the bravest thing I've ever done. I look him right in the eye and ask, “So. What are we doing tomorrow?” I know I've made the right gamble when his eyes light up and he looks at me with a smile I've never seen on his face before. In that moment, something in the universe shifts. The world is turned upside down, and for the first time, I feel at home.

**Baz**

“Tomorrow?” I ask, eyebrow raised. I've discovered that when I raise my eyebrow he juts out his chin. It's gratifying. “Before we think about tomorrow, perhaps you can enlighten me as to exactly what it is that we’re doing right now?”

Sure enough. Chin jut. Shoulders set. Mouth open. I want nothing more than to close his mouth with my own. To push his chin back with my lips. To take his shoulders in my arms until they melt against me.

But I do no such thing. I’m not quite that self-destructive. Yet.

The moment passes and he sighs and shrugs. Shrugging and swallowing, the choreography of Snow. “I have to go to work,” he says, almost apologetically. It's alarming how my heart sinks at the words.

“Mmm,” is all I say. “I suppose someone does have to make cookies for the tourists. All right then. Tomorrow we're doing something from my list. And you have no say in it.”

He grins at me and says, trying to sound petulant, “that is so not fair. I let you choose. Also,” he adds, and my heart pauses. Nothing good ever follows that sentence structure. “I have to work tomorrow, too.”

I know a rejection when I hear one. Why did I even open myself up to this? “Fine,” I start to say, but he interrupts me.

“But I'm done at six. Can you plan something for after six?”

And just like that, I have been asked out on an actual, unambiguous date by Simon Snow.

“I'll see what I can do,” I say noncommittally. But my tone is undermined by the smile I can't prevent from rearranging my eyes and ears and heart in an unfamiliar configuration. Happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. December 23rd, day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon blushes. Ebb cries. Baz plots. 
> 
> Because he's happy. Because she's Ebb. Because what else can you expect from someone whose name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch? But it's a good kind of plotting, don't worry.

_December 24_

**Ebb**

Something is definitely going on with Simon. He's been working at my bakery for three years now, and I can tell when he's preoccupied. More than usual, I mean. He's always got five things going at once, classes and clubs and jobs and volunteering and promoting or condemning something. He's exhausting.

I like seeing him like this, lit up from inside. Humming to himself as he sets timers and checks batters and rolls the fondant. He hasn't been like this since early on with Agatha.

She was sweet enough, but that relationship dragged on long past the point when neither of them was happy anymore. My eyes start tearing up at the memory of Simon, lost and forlorn when Agatha finally broke it off. If ever a boy deserved to be happy, it was Simon.

“Ebb,” he says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.

“Sure enough.” I reply. He doesn't even smile. Far gone he is, over whoever has him beaming like the sun itself has stepped into my little bakery.

“I was wondering. There's this. Um. I mean, I was… There's a…”

I wait, tickled to see him all sweetly a-fluster. He's blushing madly and it's all I can do not to burst out laughing. How do the young ever survive being young?

“There's a. Um. A guy.”

Mmm. That's new. New is usually good, with Simon.

“So. I think I like him? And maybe he likes me? But I don't know. He probably doesn't. But maybe he does? But what about Christmas?”

I wait, but he doesn't say anything else. “Simon, love, you're going to have to spell that out for me a bit. Was that a question?”

He smiles and he's so young, it's almost painful to see. “Yeah, ok,” he says. “What I'm wondering is, what do I do about Christmas? I can't get him a present, because probably he doesn't like me and he would think it was creepy and weird. And I have no money to buy anything anyway. But what if gets something for me? And I don't have anything for him? That would be the worst. But what if I have something for him and he had something for me and he doesn't like what I got him and then he doesn't like me?”

He's running his hands through his hair, making it stand up every which way.

“Is there any way you can find out,” I ask, as he goes to wash his hands after a pointed glare from me. “Like ask his roommate or something?”

He squirms and starts lifting his hand to mess with his hair again before stopping himself. “Well, no, because, um, I kind of am his roommate?”

I can't help laughing this time. “I see. Ok then, lay it all out for me. What makes you think he doesn't like you?”

“Well. Mainly just that I know he hates me. And I kind of got him kicked out of school last year.”

I stare at him and he shrugs. I can see that he's not going to explain it past that. “Ok then,” I say. “What makes you think he likes you?”

“He went ice skating with me yesterday and he smiled a lot. Well, maybe not a lot, but more than usual. And we're going out tonight and he's planning it. And. Um. I really, really want him to.”

**Simon**

I don't know why I'm telling all of this to Ebb. There's something about her that makes me feel peaceful. And she's got her own shit going on, so I know she won't judge me. And she doesn't know anyone I know, so there's no chance of it getting back to him. Or Agatha. Or anyone.

I don't really expect her to be able to help, but it feels good to say this all out loud. To my surprise, she keeps asking questions.

“Ok. So, imagine that you get him something and he doesn't get you anything. What's the worst that'll come of that?”

I think about it. “I'd feel like an idiot. He'd make fun of me. Actually, he wouldn't even waste that much energy. He'd just look at me and do this thing with his eyebrows that makes me feel invisible. Or something. He'd hate me.”

“But you said just now that he already hates you,” Ebb reminds me with a smile. “Ok, so say you don't get him anything, and he gets you something. What's the worst case there?”

“Well, I’d still feel like an idiot. And. I'm scared he'd look sad or something. Disappointed. Hurt.” As I say the words, I imagine him, what he'd look like, how awful it would feel to know I made him look like that. It makes me feel sick just imagining it. How did I get so far gone so quickly?

“So, either you're embarrassed or he's hurt. That’s the worst that'll come of it. What about the best? What's the best that'll happen, each way?”

“If I get him nothing? Best case scenario, neither of us feels like an idiot.”

“And if you do get him something? Best case there?”

I feel myself blushing and the answer is obvious to both of us.

“So… What do I get for him?” I ask, and she looks at me thoughtfully.

“I think you'd best bake something for him then,” she says, smiling, and we spend the next few hours plotting as we bake.

**Ebb**

Simon’s gone, and I start closing up. I'm in the back when I hear the front door open. Bollocks. I thought I'd locked it.

“Sorry, we're closed,” I'm already calling out as I walk into the front. There's a young bloke standing at the counter who looks vaguely familiar.

“My apologies. But could I put in a special order for Christmas Day?” he asks politely.

That voice. That vaguely British lilt. I’m trying to place him as I explain that all Christmas orders had to have been in by Monday. His face falls and he's about to leave.

I'm not ready for him to leave yet, though. There's a memory tugging at me and it'll drive me mental if I don't figure it out.

“But I could make an exception,” I say without quite meaning to. He raises an eyebrow and it all falls together in a rush. I look closely and sure enough there's a slight scar on the side of his neck.

It has to be Natasha’s son.

Dear god, could he have grown that fast? The old sadness hits me and I grab the counter discreetly. I don't want to let on that I know him. That I knew Natasha. He doesn't need to be assaulted with the memory of his mother’s murder while out running Christmas errands. I can't stop the emotion that thickens my voice as I hear myself ask, “what is it you wanted to order?”

**Baz**

I’m not sure what makes her change her mind, but I'm relieved. I can't think of anything besides food that I can safely get for Simon. Something that says I care but doesn't reveal quite how much. Something that would like, but that wouldn't make him uncomfortable if I bought it for him. I hope.

He never told me Ebb was English. Or maybe she's Irish? Fiona would be furious to learn that I can't tell the difference. Regardless, Ebb’s voice is comforting. An echo from a long time ago. I'm filled with a strange wistfulness and I find myself confiding in her.

“Actually, maybe you could help me with that part.” She looks at me strangely. Fair enough. So I explain. “It's for, um, Simon?” Jesus, just saying his name makes me stumble over my words. I never stumble, over words or anything else. I try to summon more courage.

“For Simon,” I repeat. “The guy who works here.” She rolls her eyes at me. I didn’t know that adults did that. “And I imagine you know him pretty well. What do you think he'd like?”

Her smile is inscrutable as she says “cranberry muffins. They’ll be ready tomorrow night. If you leave me your number, I'll call you when you can pick them up.”

I'm relieved to have that taken care of. I head quickly back towards campus, towards Simon, my mind turning to tonight. I can feel Ebb’s eyes follow me as I walk away. It feels nice, like I'm being watched over. By an ex-pat British baker who leaves flour fingerprints on her keyboard and rolls her eyes. Perfect disguise for a fairy godmother.

**Ebb**

I watch him walk away, and then I lock the door for sure this time and let myself have a good cry. Nothing like a good cry when you're sad, I always say. Ha.

That's the way it would happen, too. Getting back a piece of Tasha because of Simon. The boy’s a good luck charm. Except for himself, I sometimes suspect. He never says much about his life. But silence has a voice all its own, and I know well enough how to listen for it.

I don't know what I'm going to tell Simon. If I'm even going to tell Simon a blessed thing. But heaven knows both those boys deserve to be happy. And they're so sweet in the first blush of love. It starts me off crying again. I calm myself down with a cup of tea.

Then I think of poor Baz growing up without Tasha. And Tasha never getting to see how tall and handsome her son turned out. And Simon without a soul in the world. And I cry some more.

I’m going to do something about this. Those boys should be happy. And how can that be if Simon doesn't know a thing? Maybe he already knows. In which case my interfering won't really interfere.

But I can't let on that Basilton came in here, sweet as a morning breeze, wanting to do something secret and nice for Simon. And here's Simon planning something secret and nice for Baz. It's enough to make a grown woman cry. Which I do, heartily, as I head home to search around for my old photo album.

 

 


	7. December 18, three years earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in Simon’s first year in college, and tells the story of how he meets Ebb and falls in love with sour cranberry muffins.

_December 18, three years earlier_

**Simon**

Last final of my first semester is done. I made it. From now on I can always tell myself that if I made it through one semester, I can make it through another. And another. 

I'm going to make it.

_December 20_

**Simon**

Most people have gone home. I've prepared myself for that. Or I've tried to. Prepared myself against the loneliness, the otherness, that was bound to follow.

But there’s one type of fallout I was not prepared for. The disappearance of food that followed the disappearance of people. I don't know how I didn't think of it before, but I didn't. I didn't plan for it.

There's no school-sponsored food over the break. And there are a lot fewer odd jobs too, because no one is building a bookshelf or moving a refrigerator over the holidays.

So I'm suddenly even more short on cash than I usually am. Combined with losing the source of most of my meals, I'm starting to get seriously hungry. And with the hunger comes fear.

What ever made me think I could pull this off? He always told me I could never make it without him. That without the things he chooses to give me, I will be nothing. That I'm forever in his power and forever in his hands. That I have nowhere to run.

And it seems like he's right. I can't make it on my own. I’m already starving, not even a year into life on my own. Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think I could do this.

_December 21_

**Simon**

I am so over the self pity. There's no fucking way I let Davy win.

Ironically, he's the one who forced me to learn what I need to know to get through this now. Some of his plans backfired. Like teaching me how to survive being homeless. That happened (for the first time) when I was 10.

He had invented a new game. I wasn't allowed to eat one day. That wasn't new. The new part was dinner. Eight o'clock, he called me downstairs for dinner. I was relieved. I was really hungry and school was out so I hadn't had lunch and I wouldn't get any the next day.

He sat at the table. There was roast chicken and rice and carrots and fresh bread. It smelled amazing. This happened sometimes. There would be periods when everything was good. When he was the same person at home as he was in public. When I could let my guard down, and pretend that I was a normal kid with a normal dad.

But this turned out not to be one of those times. I remember walking over to my usual seat, and noticing with a twinge of anxiety that there was no place set for me. He shook his head as I approached the chair, and gestured wordlessly to the floor beside his feet. There was a bowl on the floor, like for a dog. We didn't have a dog. He tossed a scrap of chicken in the bowl and looked at me dangerously.

And then I understood the new game. I was supposed to sit on the floor and eat what he threw me. I thought about refusing to do it. But this was hardly the worst thing he'd ever forced me to do. And I knew that crossing him when he was playing a game always ended in something worse. And, I was really hungry, and the chicken smelled really good. So I gave in. I sat on the floor. He didn't acknowledge me, other than not looking at me any more, which was an improvement.

I started to pick up the piece of chicken and he kicked me in the side, once, quickly. “No. Bad.” he snapped. He went back to eating and I sat there, frozen. I started to understand what he wanted me to do. To eat from the bowl with my mouth. Like a dog.

My breath started coming too fast. I wouldn't do this. I couldn't. I wasn't. I just. I couldn't.

I got really, really angry. I was still too young to control it, even though I knew how much worse it made things. I don't remember exactly what I did. Screamed maybe? Threw the bowl? Started crying. Started getting up to go back upstairs.

I do remember his terrifying smile, as he grabbed me. He lifted me right up, like I was nothing. He picked me up, pushed me out the front door, and locked it. Told me he'd decide when I could come back. When I learned to appreciate what he gave me. I wasn't wearing shoes. I started crying, begging, pounding on the door. Saying I was sorry, I would be good, I wouldn't disobey him. Just please, don't leave me here in the dark, in the night, alone, outside. Just please, don't.

It didn't help. Not that day, not the next, not the one after that. Every day I would come back and knock on the door and plead to be let back in. And every day he would look at me, shake his head, and lock the door again. And every time it was a fresh wave of shame and rejection. And anger. The anger was always there, boiling under the surface until I swear it made my fingertips crackle with the force of holding it in.

That first time, he locked me out for three days. He liked the whole episode so much, he did it every year, random times, always when school was out. Usually in the summer. Some years I could return after only one day. Some years it was a week. One really bad year it was around three weeks. And every day I would wonder if it was the last day. And every day he would shake his head and lock the door. It was like being trapped in a loop. It was like Davy could control time itself.

When I grew big enough that I could have resisted him pushing me through the door, I didn't. Until I had a plan for getting away and staying away, resisting would just hurt me more in the end. And there were some benefits to not being in the house with him. So I waited it out.

Every year it got a little easier. I started to wear sneakers all the time, so I'd be prepared when it happened. After one year when he threw me out in the middle of the night, I started sleeping in my clothes. I learned which parks I could sleep in without getting harassed. I learned which shelters I could go to without getting beat up. I learned which churches give out food and when. I learned which dumpsters were worth diving.

And I learned, ultimately, the opposite of what Davy intended. I learned that I can survive on nothing. It just really sucks. I learned that I needed to plan carefully so that when I finally could change my name and get on a bus and never look back, I'd really make it.

It's like this is the test I’d been training for. I did it then. So I set out to do it again now.

I scope the shelters. But what I see scares me. There's a whole racial dynamic in the city that I've never navigated before. The churches here don’t set up food until Christmas. Most of the dumpsters are claimed, and I have no place in the complex hierarchy of the streets here. The consequences of learning by trial and error seem worse than the hunger, so I put it off for later. For when I get really desperate. Which will inevitably happen.

_December 23_

**Simon**

I am so fucking hungry. And so fucking angry. And so, so tired. I wander aimlessly, watching people do their last minute stuff. Buying presents. Buying trees. Buying food. They all seem so untouchably far away. Like I'm looking at them through the wrong end of a telescope. From under water.

I wander through the park near campus and a guy catcalls and shouts, “I'll give you a hundred bucks if you suck my dick, gorgeous,” then falls over laughing with his friends. He's drunk. But for a split second it seems tempting. Or inevitable. Or something.

It's a split fucking second too long to have even entertained the thought, and I'm shaken. I feel the panic starting to build as I keep walking. I feel my breath coming too fast, my legs starting to shake. So I just sit down, where I am, in the middle of the street. I curl myself in, my knees bent and my head on my knees and my arms around my legs and I concentrate on disappearing. Just for a little bit. Just until this passes. And I fall asleep.

**Ebb**

I'm late to open the bakery and I see a drunk kid passed out in front of the store. The river of people parts easily around him. Avoiding bodies on the sidewalk is as natural here as stepping up onto the curb when you cross the street. Everyone does it seamlessly. Without skipping a beat. I've lived here for more than twenty years and I swear I'll never get used to it.

I have nothing against the kid. I've been drunk (and worse) too many times myself to cast aspersions. But I can't have him blocking the door like this. And he should get home anyway, try to sleep it off in a bed, not on filthy NYC concrete.

I've made a vow to myself never to kick anyone awake. It's not as easy a vow to keep as you might think. Leaning down to touch someone with your hand can be asking for trouble. Not to mention the smell. But it's a vow I've never had to break. And I don't now.

I brace myself for the smell as I bend down, but there's nothing. No alcohol. No piss. No shit. It's the first sign that something strange is going on.

I tap the boy on the shoulder. “Oi, kid,” I say. “You're blocking the door to my shop.”

He sits up and blinks at me in alarm and stutters out “I'm, I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't mean to, I didn't know I was, I didn’t realize this was…” And he scrambles to his feet, blushing.

Ma'am? Did he just say ma'am? Is he fucking blushing? I get a better look at him as he stands up, before he turns to walk away. My god, he's so young. Can't be past twenty. Not drunk. Not stoned. Not high. What the bloody hell is he doing, collapsed on the sidewalk?

He reminds me of Nicky, this one. Good soul that just invites trouble. I can feel my tears start and I scold them back. There's things that need doing here.

I start unlocking the store as I call out, “calm down, kid. It's ok. Sleeping isn't a crime. You want something to eat? This is my bakery.”

He turns with a wary look on his face. Too thin. Too beautiful. Too haunted.

“Ok,” he nods.

And that's how I come to meet Simon Snow.

**Simon**

I’m burning with shame. I've become just another body blocking normal people from going about their normal lives. I turn to get away, but stop when she calls out and offers me food. My shame deepens. But I'm more hungry than ashamed. I'm in no position to refuse food, not even a fucking cookie. So I nod and say ok.

And that's how I come to meet Ebb.

I fall in love with the bakery immediately. It’s hushed, like a church. As if the layer of flour that coats everything also blocks out everything sharp or ugly about the world.

And the smell. It almost knocks me over as I walk in. It smells like bread and chocolate and safety. It’s bright and spare, but still somehow homey. Cozy. Pictures of goats everywhere. Little goat figurines. Goat salt and pepper shakers. She must have a thing for goats.

She walks over and hands me a day-old muffin, saying if I wait an hour there'd be a fresh batch. I bite into the muffin, trying to be slow about it, trying not to look like a rabid animal. The cranberries are so sour, and the dough is so sweet. I have to close my eyes while I eat it so I won’t be overwhelmed by its perfection.

Ebb watches me for a minute, and then she says jokingly, “you're a trusting one, aren't you? Didn't your mother ever warn you not to take candy from strangers?”

It's too much. I'm hungry and exhausted and ashamed and scared. I’m using every scrap of energy I have to keep it together, to act normal around this member of the normal world. But her joke, such a stupid thing. Shouldn't matter at all. It has no meaning, she doesn’t mean anything by it. It's like asking how are you. It doesn't mean what the words mean, all lined up.

But those words. Trusting, mother, warn. Didn't? Ever? Take. Stranger. They add the final weight that knocks me off balance. I can't keep it together any more.

I break. I start to cry. Then I’m sobbing. I'm dripping and terrified, and so ashamed I’m practically vibrating. Ebb walks towards me and I brace myself for whatever's coming next. At least I had the muffin, before I screwed everything up. That'll keep me for a while longer before real desperation sets in.

**Ebb**

The boy starts crying and I finally let my own tears fall too. It feels good to cry. I'm a big believer in crying.

My heart cracks as I look at this beautiful, broken boy. No mother, I guess. But there has to be more to his story than that. No matter. I don't need to know his story. I just need to decide what part I want to play in it.

I lock the door so we don't get interrupted. It's my own fucking bakery, I can open whenever I bloody well feel like it. I bring over a roll of paper towels and the kid flinches. Jesus, what’d he think I was going to do?

I sit down next to him and blow my own nose heartily as I hand him the roll of towels. Tissues have never been a match for my crying. I gave up on tissues years ago.

He looks up, startled, and I see how scared he is. Oh, Nicky, is this how you felt? Is this how you looked when you ran? And I let my tears flow their careless way down my cheeks as I say,

“Nothing like a good cry. Most young people don't realize that. Me, I cry all the time. Not healthy to hold it all in. Nice to have company, though.”

There, finally, a smile. Small, but still there.

I need to hire someone to help with the holiday rush anyway. Usually it's just a couple of kids from the high school. But it would be good to have some help all the time. And this boy brings my Nicky to mind, and I don't want to lose that. So I take a risk. Risks have usually worked out for me.

“You want a job?” I ask, and get a real smile in response. Dear lord, his face transforms with that smile. He doesn't look like my Nicky at all when he smiles. But I don't want to lose this boy and his smile, either.

So I start talking out the details. I know he'll agree to whatever I propose, so I make sure to propose something that'll pay him enough not to be falling asleep in the street from hunger exhaustion. Plus I can feed him when he's here. He can eat as much as he wants from the bakery.

Though I'm soon to discover just how much that turns out to be, I've never regretted that decision. Not for a minute. He’s my Simon, now. He’s not my Nicky, but he's every bit as dear.

 


	8. December 23rd: night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz's first date. Unless the ice skating counts. In which it's the second date. But should the ice skating count? Still. Either way. It's a date.

_December 23rd, evening_

**Simon**

I take a quick shower when I get back from the bakery. Baz isn’t in the room yet, which is good. I’m not ready. I'm paralyzed by the dilemma of what to wear. I want to look good, but I don't want to look like I want to look good. I start putting on shirts and tearing them back off so quickly that I can't remember what I've already tried and have to start all over again.

Should I wear a nice shirt, which is the first thing he’ll see? And then just wear a pair of old jeans or something, in case I’m not supposed to look dressed up? But then do I wear a tie? Or is it better to wear something nice on the bottom half instead? Then I shouldn’t wear a button-down shirt, I’ll have to find a t-shirt, but it can’t be too grungy. Which is the less embarrassing compromise?

I decide that the top half matters more, and put on a nice shirt. Still not sure about the tie. Then I change my mind because I remember that I have a perfect pair of jeans that I’ve never worn, and that will mean I look nice on both halves, so maybe I shouldn’t wear them, or maybe I need a different shirt. I really want to wear the jeans. I found them at the PAL years ago, and I wanted to save them for something special. I decide that tonight definitely counts. They’re some fancy brand and the perfect color and fit so well that even I know that I look hot in them. It’s sad to think how long it’s been since I found them, and haven’t had anything in my pathetic life worth wearing them to.

Until tonight. Stay positive. I think I’m ready. My hair is a mess but I don’t think hair matters. Does it? Shit. I run my hands through it but that makes it worse. And then I realize I’m still wearing the button-down shirt, and maybe it makes me look like an idiot. Luckily it’s cold out, so I hunt around for a sweater or something and decide on a Columbia sweatshirt. There. Perfect. I can’t go wrong in a school hoodie, it’s not fancy or grungy. It’s perfect. And just in time, because the doorknob is turning.

**Baz**

When I walk into our room, Simon jumps away from the mirror, but not before I see him nervously smoothing down the front of his sweatshirt. I try not to smile but it’s really cute and I’m reassured to find that he’s as jumpy as I am.

He’s wearing a school sweatshirt. I should’ve guessed. He’s going to be the only guy in the club wearing a sweatshirt. But to be fair, I’ve given him absolutely no warning about what to expect. And honestly, those jeans make up for everything. I blush as he catches me admiring his ass. But seriously, you can’t wear those jeans and not expect people to look. His idiotic sweatshirt notwithstanding, I’m satisfied. The bottom half matters more anyway. Everyone knows that.

**Simon**

My nervousness fades as I catch Baz eyeing me. Good call on the jeans. I can tell he's not into the sweatshirt. But now I feel like that's petty and judgmental, since I'm already wearing it. And because I'm no longer scared of what he's going to think. The school sweatshirt stays.

I don't waste the opportunity to eye him right back. Which is worth a little time. His hair is down, and I don’t know if it's because it's the end of the day or because he knows I like it like that. He brushes it (nervously?) behind his ear with his long, elegant fingers. He has amazing fingers. Mmmm. I guess I kind of have a thing for his fingers.

Anyway, moving on. His eyes are an intense grey. They’re almost black when he’s indoors, but sometimes they kind of glow silver when the sun hits them. Those eyes. Crowned by the world's most expressive eyebrows. Set in a face just the right shade of pale to be heartbreaking. He bites his lower lip (definitely nervous. wow.) and I'm distracted by the way his lip gets a little pinker. I almost can't breathe as the desire hits me to have those lips on mine. To have those lips all over me.

Get a fucking grip, Simon. You've only ever had a first not-date.

So does that make this our second date, or our first? If it’s the second, does that make it a non-date too? Because this definitely feels like a date. So it must be first. Our first date. The thought distracts me enough to remember how to breathe. God, if his face does that to me, I better not look at the rest of him.

I do anyway. He looks perfect. He is perfect (no one’s perfect, don't set yourself up like this). He's just wearing jeans and a kind of jacket thing and a shirt (not a button down, but also not a t-shirt. damn. I didn’t know there was something in between. that’s totally what I should have done). It sounds boring, but on him each piece looks crisp, sharp. He looks really good. Actually, he looks sexy as fuck.

I have the confusing experience of switching back and forth between thinking, there's no way this guy likes me and, wow, I can't believe he's into me. It's like a rush and a fall and a rush again. Finally I realize we've been staring at each other for a while now, without saying a word. Who's supposed to speak? The person already in the room or the person who just walked in? Probably the one already in. What can I say that won't sound stupid?

He rescues me with an eyebrow (I want to lick his eyebrows into submission) and a smile. A real smile. And he asks, “are you hungry?” So I smile back. That's a question I can't screw up. That's the one question I’m confident I know the answer to.

“Always.”

And we walk out.

**Baz**

I’m nervous as I lead him into the club. It’s one of those places that you have to know about to find, in a giant warehouse in the meatpacking district, and I suppose I’m showing off a little. We walk in on the main floor and everyone looks up at us, as if on cue.

Shit. Simon really shouldn’t have worn that sweatshirt.

No. Fuck them. He can wear whatever he wants.

I walk through the crowded space with more confidence than I feel. It works. Everyone shifts to make room for us, and they’re staring with curiosity now, rather than disdain. I can't feel Simon at my back, so I pause to wait for him at the top of the stairs that are tucked into the far corner.

You have to know about the stairs, too. I find it so satisfying to know that all the people on the main floor think they’re on the inside, think they’re in some secret club. But the real secret club is downstairs, and not one of them even knows that they don’t know about it. It’s pathetic and petty; apparently, so am I.

I’m nervous to see Simon’s reaction as we descend the staircase. I try to glance at him surreptitiously but I needn’t have bothered being so discreet. He is completely distracted, looking around. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open (as usual) and he’s staring around as if he’s never seen a jazz ensemble before. Which is possible, I suppose.

He must feel my gaze because he turns to look at me. “Damn,” is all he says, with a crooked grin. That seems ok, I decide. Impressed is ok, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. I love this place, and it would suck for him to hate it.

Can I touch him? What if he still thinks this is part of the dare and it would freak him out if I touch him? But he was definitely smoothing down his sweatshirt. He cares. We’re on a date. The thought sends little thrill through me. But still, I shouldn’t overtly touch him, like touch him touch him, just to touch him. It has to be a functional kind of touch. Like when we were walking in the ramble.

I put my hand on the small of his back to lead him to my table (yes, I come here often enough to have a table. But I’ve never brought anyone with me before) and I feel him shiver under my hand. I almost keel over. I can’t believe this is really happening. He’s into me. It’s wild.

The room is arranged with the musicians sort of in the middle and off to a corner, and tables carefully arranged around the rest of the room to maximize the acoustics. My table is one of the more secluded ones, which is part of why I’m here so much. It’s one of the only places I can eat without being self-conscious.

I hold out Simon’s chair and then nervously try to cover it up with a sarcastic smile. He doesn’t take the bait. He just sits down, finally closing his mouth. I sit too, and enjoy watching him startle as the waiter brings over the first course and a bottle of wine. There’s no menu here. The chef makes whatever he feels like, and you never know what’s going to come next.

Which leaves me plenty of time to stare at Simon. He’s stunning. Gorgeous. Totally out of his element. Totally in my hands. Totally perfect.

**Simon**

Baz cuts through the crowd like a sliver of ice. I’ve never seen anyone be so cool. The roomful of beautiful people looks at him like he’s their fucking king. I’m confused when he just keeps walking, past the gyrating bodies, past the bar, past the tables, to a dark corner. He waits for me and then I see that he’s at the top of a hidden staircase. This is fucking unreal.

I feel like I’m in a play. And when we get downstairs, it’s like there’s been a sharp scene change. The sound of pulsing music disappears and a different world stands in front of us.

Where upstairs, everything glittered, down here, everything is muted. Everything is smooth and understated and infinitely more intimidating than the room upstairs, which up until this moment was definitely the most intimidating place I’ve ever been.

There’s a scattering of musicians playing what seems to be a random arrangement of instruments, standing or sitting in what appears to be a rather random arrangement of chairs. I look around, trying to find the order in the chaos, when I feel Baz staring at me. I look at him, and he glances away. He’s nervous. He's worried about how I'll react. He wants me to like this place. I can make him nervous. It's intoxicating.

I don’t know what to say, though. It’s like I’ve never met Baz before. I don’t know who he is here. I don’t know what I’m doing here with him.

Then he puts his hand softly on my back to guide me to a table, and I can’t suppress a shiver of pleasure. I’m hopeless, excited by even that small touch. I hope he didn’t notice. I hope he touches me again.

There’s no hostess, but Baz seems to know exactly where to go. I wonder how often he comes here. I think he might be flirting with me as he pulls out my chair with a sarcastic half smile, but I am in no shape to flirt back. I still can’t figure out if I like being here or I hate it.

I mean, it smells amazing and I'm excited about the music. But I feel like I’m intruding on a world I haven’t been invited to join, and that really pisses me off. Is he trying to intimidate me? I mean, I knew he was going to take me somewhere I would never be able to afford to take him, because that covers 99.9% of the things to do in New York. But this is on a different plane. This is like, I exist here only at his whim.

I feel my hands starting to curl into fists and I try to calm myself down. He’s just taking me to dinner. He’s not trying to control me. This isn’t a game, he’s not going to wait until I feel safe and then turn on me. Even if he did hate me just a couple of days ago. How could that change so quickly? Maybe it didn’t really change, and we’re only here because...

Then a waiter shows up with some food we haven’t even ordered and I feel like there are invisible strings being pulled somewhere. I feel like I’m caught in a net.

  
**Baz**

My heart stutters as I watch his face darken. Fuck. What just happened? What did I do wrong? Simon looks like he's a kettle about to start screaming. How did I misread him so badly just a second ago?

“Hey,” I say, just to say something. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I think that's what he usually does when he's angry. Or maybe he goes running? He blinks and stares at me.

“What?” he asks. “We just sat down. Why would we leave again?”

“You just seem... upset? If you don't like it here, we can go somewhere else. I brought you because I like it here, but I know it’s kind of a weird place. We don’t have to stay. I'm sorry that…” why the hell am I apologizing? Just stop talking, I tell myself. And I do.

I'm alarmed to feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I don't know why this happens when I'm around him. All my defenses crumble. Right now, it's like I'm five years old again, trying to explain to my furious father why I’d drawn flowers on the walls of my room. Why the flowers had seemed good to me, why they seemed beautiful. Why something seemed wonderful to me, when it must actually be pretty bad if it makes people so angry with me. I thought I'd learned this lesson a long, long time ago. Never admit to caring about something. It just ends up hurting. Every fucking time.

And then Simon is holding my hand and the world buzzes with static and every other thought is driven from my mind.

**Simon**

What am I doing? Baz suddenly looks so sad, like a lost kid. And I'm the one who made him look like that. I didn't know I could make him look like that. I don't want to make him look like that.

I reach out and rest my hand on the back of his hand tentatively. It's the first time either of us has unambiguously touched the other, just to touch. Even with the tension between us, the feel of his skin sets my blood flaming.

“I'm sorry,” I say softly. “I freaked out for a second. This place kind of reminds me of… someone. It has nothing to do with you.”

He slowly weaves his fingers through mine. His skin is softer than I expected, and drier. His hands are strong but his touch is gentle and I don't know why he's holding my hand but I know that it feels so good. Like the universe just twisted into focus. Like there's grass beneath my feet. We sit quietly like this for what feels like a long time.

“I'm sorry too,” he says finally, smiling a little sadly at me. “I guess I wanted to impress you. Which was stupid.”

And he blushes and looks away and then back (shyly? Is that even possible?) and any remaining flicker of resentment is washed out in a flood of feelings that I don't want to admit might be love. Who falls in love this fast?

**Baz**

Did I really just say that? Fuck. At least I didn’t say the rest of it. That I did this stupid thing because he makes me want to do stupid things. Big things, grand things. Crazy things. I don't say it but for some reason I think he knows it, and I blush. He’s blushing too. The whole situation is preposterous. Embarrassingly, impossibly, sublimely preposterous.

We stare stupidly at each other and I don’t know how anyone can be that bright. It almost hurts to look at him. His smile should be registered as a hazardous explosive. They shouldn’t let him on airplanes.

The feeling of his fingers twisted with mine is more intense than any hookup I’ve ever had. No one has ever made me feel like this. No one has ever made me feel like the world has stopped and I'm on fire. It’s like we’ve fallen into some space-time wormhole where only we exist, and I never want to leave.

Things are good now between us, and Simon finally starts eating. I watch him. Not even trying to hide it. He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I’m startled. What has he been doing, practicing that in the mirror? The thought makes me smile, which undermines my initial impulse to cock my eyebrow right back at him. Everything doesn’t have to be a fight. A competition. Even with him. Right? We can have something else.

So I take the hint, and I start eating too. I don’t let myself bring a hand up to block my face while I do. I stay open. His shoulders visibly relax and all remaining tension slips from his face and we sit and talk and eat and listen to music and hold hands. It’s easy to get lost in him. He's endless. And I can watch him and enjoy him as much as I want to. At least tonight.

I can’t help noticing certain things. I file them away now, to think about later. He eats slowly, leisurely. Completely unlike his usual speed show. He shucks oysters expertly. He reflexively swirls the wine in his glass and breathes it in before drinking it. He’s amazed by the truly amazing courses, and simply eats the more mundane ones. He knows food.

He knows exactly which knife to use for the cheese course. He knows when to expect the whole table setting to be removed and replaced with a new one. It could just be from dating Agatha, but I don’t think so. I think he’s eaten in places like this before. I think that whatever this reminded him of, it's buried in the mountain of things he doesn't ever talk about. It makes me sad. And I wonder about it. About him. I want to envelop him in light, to never let the darkness touch him.

**Simon**

Once things are calm and good again, I realize that I’m ravenous, and I turn curiously to the food in front of me. It’s a small sphere of rosemary sorbet beside a fennel cracker, and it’s heavenly. I’ve forgotten how transcendent good food is. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten like this, and I give myself over to the experience completely. I eat every bite slowly, lost in the tastes and textures and aromas.

Some of the food is really mind-blowing. Most is just good. Everything comes in small portions spaced out perfectly over time, and hours are going by. We hold hands in between every course. He reaches for me as much as I reach for him.

The heat that flows up my hands from his fingers sets my mind spinning in crazy directions that no longer seem quite so crazy. The space between our hands feels like it’s sparkling, sparking, alive. He’s made of starlight and magic and his magic is twisting around my arms and tying me to him.

Between the 9th and 10th courses there’s a sort of intermission. Baz stands and tugs lightly on my hand. I stand up, curious. He leads me down yet another mysterious hallway. He rubs his thumb across the back of my hand as we walk. It's embarrassing how breathless that tiny movement leaves me.

We emerge in a small courtyard studded with sculptures and lit only with fairy lights. There are people standing around in little quiet alcoves. I realize that the sculptures are actually a cleverly designed heating system that makes it possible to be outside without a coat, even in December.

I’m grateful to whoever designed it. Being outside always makes me feel calmer. Makes the monsters seem smaller.

“What is the place?” I ask him, as we sit in an empty, secluded spot.

“They built it so people can smoke,” Baz explains. “But now everyone uses it to break the rhythm of the courses so they can build again at the end of the meal.”

“No, not that. Well also that. But I mean, what is this whole place?”

**Baz**

He doesn’t blink at my description of pacing the courses. I am burning with curiosity about him. But it will have to wait. He’s asked me another question. The obvious question. What is this place?

How do I explain it? I seem to have no control over what I say to him. I try to restrain myself from saying too much.

“It's a kind of club,” I say, hoping to be able to leave it at that. He might've let me, too.

But when I look at his face, it looks as hopeful and confused as I feel. Suddenly I don’t want to leave it at that anymore. I want to push all of this as wide open as I can. If I'm going to get burned, I want to go in a dramatic flame, not smoldering invisibly behind smoked glass.

I want to tell him everything. I have enough sanity left to know that would be a pretty bad idea. But maybe just this. Maybe I can try to tell him about this.

What I say: “One of the idiotic fights I got into with my father was about joining his club. I hate his fucking club.”

What I don't say: it's a club of powerful men. Men who consider the rest of society to be nothing more than a vehicle for their own success and pleasure. Men for whom fatherhood is just another source of power. In their world, childhood is a hazing that lasts 18 years. When you turn 18, you’re supposed to join them. Then you get to start being one of the terrifying men, instead of being their prey. I always assumed I'd join. I always did everything he wanted, in the end. Everyone does.

What I do say: “So, we fought. Me and my father. It was… I still don't know what it was. But we reached a semantic compromise. I join a club that proves that I'm a man and not a child, and he'll officially consider me an adult.”

What I don't say: by which he meant, he'll stop openly belittling everything I do and say. Everything I am.

What I do say: “so I found this place. A club where no one needs to talk to anyone else. Where everyone comes for their own reasons and everyone does their own things. There's always good food and good music and no intrusions. I come whenever I can, now. It's the first thing I ever managed to do to successfully defy my father.”

What I don’t say: This place is like my soul. It was a crazy thing for me to do, to take you somewhere that matters so much to me the first time I take you anywhere. But I just wanted to bring you here. I've never come here with anyone. But I wanted to come here with you. And I really want you to like it. I really want you to like me. Because I like you. So much. So stupidly much.

When the things I don't say threaten to join the ranks of the things I do say, I stop talking. I finally risk looking up at Simon. I fear that all he sees is a privileged rich kid sniffling about his rich-kid problems.

But his eyes are soft and kind. He's sitting very still, like I'm a rabbit who will jump away if he startles me. So I give him kind of a smile. He gives me kind of a smile back.

And then he kisses me.

**Simon**

I'm listening to Baz, but mostly what I'm doing is staring at his lips as they move. Some part of my mind is listening to what he's saying. Another part of my mind is listening to what he's not saying. And what registers most clearly is that the combination is saying something else entirely.

He's saying, you can have me. He's saying, I will let you see me. I'll let you into the places that matter the most. And I'll wait for you there and I hope you'll follow me.

And that transforms what he's saying and not saying into a question. And I know my answer, beyond a doubt. And so I kiss him.

I kiss Baz.   
  
I can't believe I'm kissing Baz. Finally.

**Baz**

I can't believe Simon’s kissing me. Finally.

**Simon**

His lips are cold and his mouth is warm and his tongue is strong and it's a good thing we're already sitting because I feel my knees go weak. I never knew that was actually a real thing that could literally happen. I'm learning so many things tonight.

**Baz**

He leans back and whispers, eyes opening slowly, “god, I have wanted to do that for so long.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, because we’re both so eternally idiotic, to have successfully played at fighting all these months when we could have been doing this instead.

But I don’t laugh or cry, because I have more important things to do. I lean forward, and his face tilts towards mine. I take his shoulders and I kiss him, so, so slowly. The kiss deepens and shifts, and it's like someone's cast a spell. Like he and I are flying among the stars. Like there's no oxygen in the atmosphere and we have to breathe one another's breaths just to stay alive.

One of his hands cups my cheek and the other one slips through my hair and then grasps it, making me gasp. He smiles against my mouth and I retaliate by kissing the mole behind his left ear that I've lusted after for so long. I'm rewarded by a quiet moan. I get my comeuppance immediately because I can't stifle an answering moan from escaping my throat. We're so close but not nearly close enough. I've forgotten how to breathe. I don't particularly mind. I would happily die kissing Simon Snow.

**Simon**

I have absolutely no idea how much time has passed. Baz and I are frozen in a blistering present that never moves from the past into the future. It's not that time stands still so much as the whole universe fades. Spacetime retreats and leaves behind nothing but this, here, now.

I feel him against me and it fills me with a sense of rightness, goodness, that I never expected to feel. I feel happy. I feel transported. I feel held. I feel loved. I feel myself in love. In love with Baz. Baz my roommate. Baz my obsession. Baz, the boy in my arms. Baz, the boy moaning in my ear and making me swoon.

Neither of us seems willing to be the one to end this endless kiss. I'm embarrassed by how breathless I am. Then I'm mildly concerned that this giddy, lightheaded feeling might actually be oxygen deprivation.

The thoughts seem insignificant compared to the kiss. So I blissfully ignore them until he pulls back with a smile and a gasp and says “I hate to say this but I think I'm going to pass out if we don't stop and breathe.”

And I laugh and lean my forehead against his, and I kiss the top of his nose and say ok. But I don't let go of him, and he doesn't let go of me. Until it starts drizzling and we finally head inside to finish dinner.

It's hard to eat with only one hand, but neither of us is willing to completely give up this new thing we've discovered. Love. It lives in our joined hands. It dances between us, staying bright and ready, waiting for the moment when it can take us over completely. 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Those quiet hours when December 23 slips into December 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smiling, nightmares, and more smiling. Among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tone in most of this chapter is meant to be half-awake and half-asleep. Everything is half. Because the chapter happens in that space between night and morning, between sleeping and waking, when the normal rules don't always apply.

**Baz**

Neither Simon nor I are really the make-out-in-the-back-of-a-cab type. So we sit in a comfortable silence on the long drive back to campus. Holding hands. I'm holding hands with Simon Snow and heading back to the bedroom I share with him. The thought fills me with a delicious apprehension. What's the etiquette about sex on a first date if you're already guaranteed to end up going home with the other guy?

I feel Simon, warm against me. His head falls into my shoulder, and I look over to find that he's fallen asleep. A warm smile steals its way across my face. I lean down and kiss the top of his head, tucking my nose into his curls and filling myself with the scent that's become as familiar as my own. But somehow still sends a shiver through me.

I watch him breathe. His face is soft when he sleeps. His eyelashes curl against his cheeks. His flushed lips are parted slightly, and I shift so I can feel his breath on my neck. How can breathing be so alluring? I close my eyes and feel his warm breath on me and think indecent thoughts.

We arrive, and I hesitate to wake him. I have a brief vision of scooping him up and carrying him across the threshold and I have to stifle a fit of giggles. I suppose I'm a bit drunk. Possibly on alcohol.

He wakes up, sort of. We make it up to our room, and for a moment, I think he's going to kiss me, and I freeze. IwantthisIdontwantthisohidoidoido. But he's just tilting over because he's falling asleep on his feet. So I smile (he won't remember any of this anyway, there's no need to ration smiles) and gently help him on to his bed. I take off his shoes, but leave the rest. I hesitate, but then let myself kiss his temple, his eyes, and his lips, very briefly.

I get ready for bed. Then I turn out the light and watch him in the moonlight from my bed until I finally fall asleep too.

 _Dec 24th, about 3 a.m_.

**Simon**

I'm running and I'm crying and I'm terrified. I can't get enough air in my lungs but I can't slow down. My legs burn and my lungs burn and I push myself as hard as I can. I see the building up ahead and I hear my father behind me. If I can just get inside, I can lock the door. Maybe. I can't think past that. My father's footsteps are steady, unhurried, but he is moving much faster than I am. He's so much bigger than I am. He's not even running and I know he'll never let me get inside the door. All he has to do is speed up the smallest bit and he'll be on me. And he won't speed up until the very end, just when I think I might make it, that's always what he does. It's a game to him like everything else but I have no choice but to play and so I run and I think maybe this time I'll make it. I can see the details of the door now and I'm so close, closer than I've ever gotten before. It gives me the strength to push just a little harder. I hear my father's steps start to speed up and I know he's close now but I can't stop to turn around. I'm faster this time, just a little bit faster, but that's all I need. The door handle is under my fingers and I wrench it open and then slam it closed behind me so quickly that my ears pop. My fingers shake but I turn the deadbolt and I'm inside and he's still outside. I can't believe I've made it but I know I can't stop now, he can get through the door so I keep running. I go deeper and deeper into the maze, around corners and down stairs. With every door I lock behind me, I listen, and I don't hear his breath. I don't hear his voice or his footsteps. I don’t hear him at all, he's not there, he's not there. My heartbeat slows and I realize that I'm going to make it. I'm actually going to make it I'm going to be ok. Because I see the last door in front of me, the door to my room, the one door he can't break through and finally I'm there. I open the door and lock it behind me and I finally stop running. I bend double, hands on my legs, forcing my breathing to slow down. Willing my legs to stop shaking. And it's absolutely quiet, there's no sound but my heartbeat finally returning to normal. I stand up. I look at my bed and I am filled with a deep sick terror, because I see myself already in my bed even though I'm over here and then the me in the bed sits up with a leer and it's not me its him he's here he's already here he's inside he's inside all this time he didn't have to get in he's just inside. He's inside and now I'm locked inside with him and I start to scream. I know I shouldn't, I know it makes it worse, it always makes it worse but I can't help it. I scream and I scream and he walks towards me so slowly, knowing I'm trapped. And then he has me and I'm screaming and screaming and screaming.

**Baz**

I wake up with a shudder. I'm really confused. Someone's screaming, screaming, and I know it's my mother. I screamed and she came and. And she's screaming and she's going to die and it's going to be my fault but maybe this time it won't happen maybe this time. But. It's not her. She's not the one screaming. This isn't her scream.

It's the most terrible sound I've ever heard. It's worse than the sound that echoes through my own dreams every night. And I'm not dreaming. I'm awake, now. I'm awake and the screaming hasn't stopped and there's only one person who could be making this sound and he's sleeping in the bed that sits as the mirror image of my own, on the far side of the room. Simon. Simon is screaming and I am going to vomit from the sound. It's pure terror turned to soundwaves.

It's raw and haunted. It has its own life, like it’s fueled by some dark magic. Like it's always existed and always will exist. Like darkness itself had taken form. Like there will never be light again. It's the inverse of the sound he makes when he laughs. It's like his laugh and his smile are so intense that they create a vacuum in the universe and the vacuum becomes this endless terrible destroyer. This scream. Or maybe the scream came first. Maybe whatever happened to him that makes him scream like that ripped a hole in reality and left behind his smile.

I don't know what to do. Again. It appears that this is my new normal. Utter bewilderment. I sit on his bed, and put my arms around his shoulders. He slowly wakes up as I say his name over and over and over again. I pull him towards me and smooth his hair and let him cry. And cry. And cry.

**Simon**

This is awful. Beyond awful. Not only am I having nightmares again, but whatever fragile thing has started to stretch its way into life between me and Baz will be smothered by the weight of all this… All this brokenness. All this darkness. All this me.

But then why is there this feeling of relief. And comfort. Why is it so easy to let him in. To lean into his chest and feel his arms solid around me. To let go of the loneliness for a moment and be connected to another person. A person who smells like fancy tea and wooden planks. Whose cool strong presence can prop me up for long enough to pretend that I could have this. Have someone who can know me completely and not be scared away. To let go of the pretense of strength and power and crumble into the broken pieces that actually make up whatever it is that I am, in the end.

**Baz**

He doesn't seem to care that I have no idea what to do. It's a strange feeling. To feel needed. To be a source of comfort. To give and not just take. To do more than just take up room. Like before I was just spirit still waiting to take form, and Simon is transforming me into something real, something solid. Like a magical creature who can only exist by the grace of someone’s belief in them.

I kiss the top of his head. I keep my arms around him. I whisper his name and tell him he's ok. I feel him against me and I make myself solid. I make myself solid and strong so I can be the thing he leans against. He starts falling back asleep. I think he's asleep now, and I start to take my arms away from around him and move back to my side of the room. It's hard to let him go but staying feels like a trespass, like I'm taking advantage of his pain to insert myself into his arms. Into his bed.

But as I shift away he reaches out and grabs on to me and whispers “please, Baz, don't go this time. Please, will you stay with me? I'm sorry that I”

I hush him. No apologies. I can't stand to hear him apologize for wanting me. I feel a kind of warm thrill that he did know it was me after all last time. He knew it was me and he didn't want me to leave. I’ve never wanted to leave. So I settle myself next to him carefully and he keeps his arms around me and I put my arms around him and we both fall asleep. And we sleep and sleep and there's no more screaming.

**Simon**

I wake up, strangely warm and tingling with a kind of expectant happiness that I don't recognize. And a boy in my bed that I do.

I hold my breath and watch him sleep. I don't want to move in case he wakes up. Wakes up and jumps away from me and explains that it was a mistake, this isn't what he wants, I'm not what he wants. He wants happiness, and I come with a lot of other shit.

The other reason I don't move is that I can feel how hard I am and if I move, he'll feel it too, and then he really will jump away, in disgust. I lie here feeling happy and aroused and sad and regretful and hopeful. It seems ok somehow, anyway.

**Baz**

Mmmm. I wake up with a tickle of curls against my mouth and a warm chest beneath my hand. I let the memories wash over me. The club. Dinner. Kissing. His sleeping head on my shoulder. His screams. His trust. His wish for me to stay.

I can tell he's awake, but he's not moving. For a moment I'm scared that in the light of day he'll realize this was all a mistake. Oh and another not-so-little thing. If I move, he’s sure to notice what I actually want most at the moment. And then there will be a reckoning, and I'm not confident of which way the gavel will fall. The problems of being a boy, with no way to hide.

But the same holds true for Simon. So I move a little closer, still feigning sleep, so I can assess the situation better. That's the benefit of dating boys, you can usually tell how they feel about you, at least that way. I don't know how the whole male/female thing could possibly work, the distribution of knowledge is so imbalanced.

The results of my surreptitious foray are conclusive beyond the shadow of a doubt. So I trail the hand that's on his chest gently down as I take his lips between my teeth. I turn so he can feel my own answer to the eternal question. And then he responds, and a crazy-happy-sex-warmth-love-lust-need-want takes over.

I like him and he likes me back. I want him and he definitely wants me back. Everything I do is good, is the exact right thing to do. All he seems to want is me and everything is effortless. And everything he does is doing is pressing is grinding is moving is oh. Oh. Is sending a crazy frenzied pleasure through me. His hands and lips and tongue are everywhere and it feels so fucking good.

Then his hands slide under my pajama top, and start to ease it off, and I get a little scared. It's been a long, long time since I let anyone see me naked. I'm ashamed of the tracks that mark me. I’m ashamed of how pale I am, how starkly every flaw stands out on my skin.

But his hands feel so good. To distract myself from my self consciousness, I unbutton his shirt (he's still in his clothes from last night) and slide it off his shoulders. And here is Simon, half naked in bed with me. More beautiful than I'd fantasized. Gold ripples of muscle and skin, dotted with moles that act like a treasure map, showing me where to put my fingers, my tongue. Here he is, and here I am, and he's looking at me with so much raw desire that I feel heat sear across me, erasing every fear and flaw and leaving me bare.

**Simon**

Baz turns against me and brushes along my side and I can feel every detail of his solid presence through his thin pajamas and all I can do is grin and let him attack me. He likes ice skating with me and taking me to dinner and kissing me in a secret garden and this. He likes this, with me. We've already lost so much time pointlessly hating each other. I decide not to waste any more with anxiety and doubt. I know how he feels, and I know I know. So no more hiding.

And with that I turn and press myself into him. And everything becomes a sublime tangled mess of skin and lips and fingers. And pajamas, which suddenly become an unbearable barrier. I slide my hand underneath his shirt, across the smooth hard expanse of muscle beneath. My eyes grow envious of my fingers and I want him, bare in front of me, so I can see him and touch him with nothing between us. Not even the smooth silk of his ridiculous, fancy pajamas.

For the first time, I regret always sleeping in clothes. I am wondering how to handle it when his cool, long fingers start undoing the buttons of my shirt. That's definitely a good solution.

And soon we lie, skin to skin and breathing heavily. I'd like to keep going in the undressing department, but I don't know what he wants and decide to take my cues from him. Normally I wouldn't dream of completely undressing after one or two dates. But the whole roommate thing turns it upside down. We already live in such intimately close quarters. I've been naked in our room when he’s here countless times. Though come to think of it, he usually avoids that. And the last time I undressed anyone for the first time was two years ago. And was a girl. And the girl was Agatha. So I'm pretty much a fish out of water here, and I don't want to do something wrong, so regretfully I leave the bottom half of his pajamas right where they are.

The regret is short lived, because half naked is still pretty fucking awesome and I drink him in. He's every bit as beautiful as I imagined. I want to tell him but I would probably sound like an idiot. What do boys say to each other in bed? Can I say beautiful? Not important. Not really as important as running my hands across him and feeling his skin against mine and tracing the outlines of his nipples, so dark against his skin, like perfect targets for my fingers and mouth and he groans and I smile and I shift so I'm above him and I look down into his face and he reaches up for me and I lay down on him and we kiss and we kiss and we kiss and we kiss.

**Baz**

I don’t know if anything will ever stop us, or if we’ll just remain here moving across and against and on each other for eternity. Do we just get to have this? Won't the earth split and swallow us whole for the hubris of thinking we can have this?

But it's not the earth, ultimately, that interrupts us. It's Simon's phone. He ignores it, but after a little while, it rings again. He ignores it again. Then it just buzzes and then buzzes again, and I finally pull away.

“Don't you need to check that?” I ask.

“Mmm no I don't have to –oh, fuck,” he groans, sitting up. “Ebb. I promised her I'd come in early to get the Christmas orders done with her.”

He glances at the phone and a look of shock crosses his face.

“It's 10:00! I'm like, four hours late! Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

I smile as I watch him dash madly around, grabbing clothes and soap and then dropping the soap with a curse and just pulling on the clothes. I don't know why I'm smiling. I just don't seem to be able to not-smile right now.

He glances over at me and then he's smiling too. And it makes me so stupidly happy to see him smile. And I guess that's love. Being crazy happy just to see someone smile. Feeling like wherever they are is a magic place of happiness and belonging and safety.

He reaches for my hand and twists his fingers through mine, and I bring our joined hands up to my mouth and brush a light kiss across his knuckles. He smiles his weapons-grade smile and then leans over and kisses me.

“Will I see you later?” he asks, and I laugh.

“I bloody well hope so. We live together, remember?”

“Hmm,” he says, pretending to think. Then he leans in close and whispers on my ear, “I suppose the real question is, will I get to see quite as much of you later?”

I'm fairly certain that my ears have never turned this pink. I don't get a chance to think of a witty reply before he walks out the door with a backward smile, and I lie back in his bed and inhale his lingering scent and wonder about what the roommate etiquette is when you turn out to be madly in love with your roommate instead of just hopelessly lusting after him and he turns out to maybe not be straight after all. And. Maybe, I let myself think, maybe the roommate might kind of love you back.


	10. Sixteen, Fifteen, Fourteen, Thirteen years earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Baz. And Natasha and Malcolm and Fiona and Daphne. And also lions and elephants and monsters and Mordelia. But mostly just little Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baz is 20 in the story's present. I leave the rest of the math to you.

Sixteen years earlier

baz

also because why if the lion has a softie head how will the elephant know? so no that’s not why and mama always says baz don't be scared so that's why im not scared and in my family there's mama who is tall and smells like sugar and she can make the lions go away when she tells them ‘go away’ in her telling-voice the lions listen also theres shadow who is four feets which is a funny way plus with also a tail that i want too but mama laughs and says no only cats get tails and even if I cry and say not fair i cant have a tail and the other thing living here is called papa with frowny eyes mostly but sometimes with happy flying through the air tricks for me so thats why now in bed i don't say anything about the lions because mama already made the lions go away and she says if there are lions they are friendly so i try to pet them but that is a tricky way with lions but if i call for mama to tell the lions to go away again then papas eyes will be frowns which makes mamas mouth a saddy kind so I will just sleep with the lion in my bed and tell him he better watch out or mama will come with her loud-voice and then he'll have to be a listener because i have to be a listener too i explain to the lion in my nice-voice because it is a nice lion after all but i think there's a ghost under my bed and there might be monsters too but now the lion is my friend so he roars right at them and then i smile all big for him and then he takes me flying outside with also butterflies and there's a rabbit with cold air on my face which is cold since I'm in bed in covers usually the cold doesn't happen but now there's a new monster and it has sharp teeth but the teeth are in his hands not his mouth which is not a very nice kind of monster to be which i decide to tell him but then the cold is on my arm and the monsters hand-teeth are cutting my neck and it hurts it hurts it hurts and also blood which means you die so i scream and scream and mama comes so thats good because she will tell the monster in her telling-voice to go away and then she will sit on my bed and we will act sleepingly but she opens her mouth and its not her telling voice its a new voice i never heard before its a scream voice a screamingly scream voice and it scares me and i start to cry and i want to tell her i don't like the scream voice but then the monster lets go of me so now i can tell her its ok we can sleep now but now there is the monster next to mama this never happened before the monsters always have to listen to mama why doesnt this one know about that but then his monster-hand-teeth go in mama and she stops the screaming scream voice but its not better its worse because now she falled down and i am very very scared all inside and cold and i want to go tell her so she can tell me its ok but im scared of the monster and then papa is here with angry angry eyes but not for me for the monster and a hand stick thats not teeth but is very loud its a loud loudness of scary sounds and the monster runs away! and papa won! and i am so happy so i go to tell mama but she is very strange and not moving so i cry and tell her im scared and she has to stop lying down now because i dont like the pretending anymore but she isnt a moving kind of mama she isnt except sticky and then papa is pulling me up away from her and i am so angry even though he won the monster because i have to change mama back into real mama if i dont i will never have my real mama so i am very angry to go away so i kick him i bite him and there is wet in his eyes and his eyes never have wet only my eyes so that is very very bad so i scream and scream and scream and scream and scream.

Fifteen years earlier  
baz

Mamas gone so I whisper to the lion in my bed myself and say in my telling voice “go away or be a nice lion” and that works. The lion is nice he asks about mama and says he heard about her from the other lions. I tell him about mama and how her fingers were so big and always had sweets and how the skin on her face was a smooth softness and how there were crinkles by her eyes when she smiled which was usually and how her eyes looked like mine, grey and dark and like they were secrets. But then I can't remember mamas nose and that is an empty thing, a face with no nose. It's not right. But then I remember the flowers, because mama always loved flowers, and so her nose had flowers hiding it a lot of times. That was ok, a face with flowers. I tell the lion I will draw him a picture but the lion says no I'm not allowed to draw a picture. But I am very brave and I say I can draw a picture if it's a good picture. But maybe the lion is right. So I won't draw a picture of mama. I will draw the flowers part because the flowers is a beautiful part and it will look beautiful and no one will even know it was me who drawed it. They will all say the flowers were always there on the wall because they are so beautiful and beautiful is good. Maybe there used to be flowers there and then they got lost so everyone was sad and now everyone will be happy because I put the flowers back and they will say what a smart boy how did you know to put the flowers back so beautiful. So I gather up my reds and purples which are crayons and my greens which is a paint and yellow which is also a paint. And I make the flowers and they are very beautiful. So I make more. I make more and more flowers on the walls, all over the walls is beautiful flowers that make me feel a happiness inside. But then the lion whispers to me to stop so I stop and I see why he whispered it to me. Because papa is here and I turn to show him mama’s flowers and I am very proud. But then I see his eyes are the angry kind of eyes he has. And a frowning kind of face with angry hands and then my stomach hurts because I do not like his angry hands they are very scary angry hurting hands. So I don’t even say to him about how they are mama’s flowers. He yells and yells with words like what is wrong with you and words like you are a disgrace and words like mama would be ashamed. And that is a sad way for words to be to me. But also he is wrong mama would love the flowers but I don’t try to tell him because I think he will notice that I got scared and peed in my pants which won’t be a good way to stop the angry things. And also I am crying which I am not supposed to do. And also I am getting scared. But then the door opens again and I run over to Fiona who is the one who made the door open. She smooths my hair and whispers in my ears and makes her own angry eyes at papa until he leaves and makes the door slam but its ok. And Fiona helps me find clean clothes and also cold water on my face and also she says the flowers are very beautiful. I tell her about mama and the flowers and she listens very serious and she nods and says they are perfect flowers and mama would love them and mama loves me and she loves my flowers. So that is better. I love Fiona and Fiona loves me. She says papa is just sad but I say I don’t like his angry hands and she looks a strange way and then she looks like Fiona again who loves me and I love her. I tell her about the lion and she says the lion is very smart and I am very brave. But then she says we have to hide the flowers behind empty paint. That makes me cry to lose my beautiful mama flowers but she says mama can still see them even if they are behind a new paint. And so me and Fiona put new paint that hides the flowers but the lion says he can still see them so that’s ok then. Then Fiona tells me she has a surprise for me and it’s a bear with a hat and a raincoat and pockets and I love it very much and I hide it so mama can see it too and so papa can’t see it because he doesn’t like babyish things he says. Then Fiona brings me pictures of mama that I can keep in my room so I don’t need to make flowers on the walls for the lion to see and that is good.

Fourteen years earlier

Baz

I am trying to stop crying. I know I can’t be crying at my own birthday party. Father will be angry. But I’m so sad. And I am not allowed to be sad. No crying, no sadness. So why am I always so sad? Why am I always crying? I am weak. I am all wrong. I am a disappointment. Father is very strong and I am supposed to be like that. So I look in the mirror and I practice. I practice making my eyes stop crying. I practice looking calm. I practice looking like papa. I make my face smooth. I make it blank. It looks like I’m not sad even though I am. That’s something. I can pretend. Then even if something’s wrong with me no one has to know. I practice faces. When my eyebrow goes up, I notice that looks not scared or sad at all. That looks like how I want to feel. So I practice it. I practice making my eyebrow go up and down and up. I practice how to make my mouth turn too. I practice them apart and then I practice them together. I am still practicing when there is a quiet knock on my door and it opens. It must be Daphne. Father doesn’t knock. I like Daphne. She is kind and she smiles a lot and she says I love you a lot. But I am a little sad and angry about her being here when mama isn’t here. And also when she came Fiona went back to London. And I miss Fiona. I miss mama and I miss Fiona and I feel my eyes start to burn but I remember no crying. So I turn to Daphne with my eyebrow that I practiced and my mouth turn and she looks surprised. I look in the mirror and I’m surprised too. I look like I am strong now. Like I am right. I look like Father.

Thirteen years earlier

Baz

We are at dinner. It’s very quiet. Except Mordelia who’s a baby and doesn’t know about being quiet. I wish I could be Mordelia. Mordelia is a baby so she sits on Daphne’s lap. I sit on a tall chair and remember to sit up straight. I remember no elbows on the table. I remember my napkin in a square on my lap. I remember not to get stains on my shirt. The best way is not to eat actually so I am pretty good at it now. Also my front teeth betrayed me. First everyone else’s teeth fell out and my little small baby teeth were still there and that was very embarrassing. And now everyone else’s big grown up front teeth have grown in and my teeth finally fell out and it’s even more embarrassing. I never match. So I don’t like for anyone to see my teeth. So I keep my mouth closed, always. If I have to eat, I hold my hand in front of my mouth so no one will see my shame. At home it’s easy to not eat. Then there’s no problem with my teeth, and no danger I will spill anything, and I can concentrate on remembering all the rules so Father doesn’t get angry. Everything is ruined when he gets angry, so it’s an important job, to make sure he doesn’t get angry. I think Daphne will be proud of me that I make sure he doesn’t get angry. I can’t always tell. Sometimes she looks happy when she looks at me and sometimes she looks sad when she looks at me. But she never looks angry when she looks at me, which is good. I don’t tell her about the lions or the monsters. I know they’re not real now. I know mama was killed by a person, not a monster. And I know it was my fault. She came to my room because I screamed for her and now she’s dead and it’s my fault. So I don’t ever scream anymore, ever. Even when it’s the night and I’m scared. Even when I have nightmares. Even when I wake up almost screaming. I don’t ever ever scream out loud. I don’t want to kill Daphne. Sometimes I think I would like to kill Father but that is a bad bad thought and I have to pinch my leg very hard as a punishment. Sometimes I have to put my fingers in the edge of the door and close it a little because of the bad things I think. But Daphne doesn’t know and so Daphne isn’t angry at me. I know she knows that I am actually hungry but just scared to eat. Because after every meal she brings me food to my room in secret that I can eat in secret and then she takes it away in secret. So I know she doesn’t hate me and she isn’t angry. But I am a little worried now that Mordelia is here. That they don’t need me anymore. If they have a new baby they may not want me anymore so I will be very very good so they don’t decide to send me away. I watch Father carefully and learn to do everything he does. When I do everything he does, when I hold my hands right and I make my face right and I do my eyebrow right and I sit up right and I dress carefully and I never hesitate and I never act weak and I never act sad and I never show anything that is happening inside me, then he looks at me in a way that isn’t happy but isn’t angry. Once I wore a suit for a dinner party and I sat very still and I could see he looked proud. So I know what I have to do and I work very very hard until I am perfect. I will be perfect. I will be perfect at everything so they will never notice that maybe they don’t want me anymore and they will never send me away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Baz. But remember, he's ok now. He's found Simon and they are falling in love right now, in the middle of this story.


	11. December 24th, morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daydreaming Simon, meddling Ebb, polite Baz. And cake.

_December 24th, later in the morning_

**Simon**

I'm kind of scared to face Ebb. I mean, I know she likes me. But I also know better than to screw up around adults. (A category in which I'm not prepared to have to count myself. It'll make the rules much more confusing.) Plus, I'm supposed to make Baz’s present-cake today, and maybe now she won't let me, and then what do I do for Baz for Christmas? I'm pretty sure now that he won't be upset if I give him something. Plus, I'm a lot more worried now that he will be upset if I don't.

I'm four hours late. That's just extreme. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I've never slept so deeply that I've missed the morning completely. I guess 10 am isn't quite missing the morning completely. In fact, I'm pretty sure that this would be considered extremely early by normal student-on-break standards.

I can't afford to lose Ebb. Not that I'd literally starve to death without her anymore. I learned my lesson well enough that time, now I have more emergency resources set up. But I can't afford to lose her, Ebb. The person. My head’s been trying to tell me for a while now how stupid it is to need another person. But my heart’s just too tired to listen. And in three years, she's never done a single thing that's violated my trust in her. And I don't want to live my life alone. I want to have people I love, who love me. I want that to be possible.

Not that Ebb loves me. Or maybe she does. It's hard to know, I'm not exactly sure what love is supposed to look like, coming from an adult. I read books like I'm doing research on normalcy. But all the books are so different, I can't form a clear picture. Anyway, I don't need her to love me. But I still don't want her to be so angry with me that something bad happens. I don't have any clear idea of what exactly could happen, what it is I'm afraid of. I just know that I'm afraid.

I start to walk faster. But no matter how fast I walk, I can't turn the clock back four hours. Maybe Ebb will let me stay after she closes up and make the cake. She sometimes lets me close up for her. But I haven't even figured out yet what I'm going to make. Or how I'm going to explain myself to Ebb.

**Ebb**

It's not like Simon to be this late. It doesn't matter in any practical way, I can handle the rest of the orders myself if I need to. We got pretty far down the list yesterday. And at first I was glad for the extra time. I could make the order for Natasha’s boy without Simon guessing anything. And I could think some more about if I was going to tell Simon. Or maybe how. I feel like I’ve made up my mind but I can’t figure out which way it’s made up.

So his being late is no bother. But I do look forward to seeing Simon on days I know he’ll be in the bakery. The world is flatter without him, like it’s missing a dimension. I don’t know how I managed before he came into my life, trailing color and music behind him like a paintbrush filling in an empty stencil.

After the first hour passed without a word from him, I smiled to myself, thinking his date must have gone well last night. After three hours, I started to worry. I called his phone. No answer. Well, I thought, maybe his date went really well. No need to get worked up. But now I'm starting to get worked up, and I keep glancing outside, hoping to see a mop of curls on a beanstalk of a boy, floating its way down the street.

Eventually I realize I should be texting him, not calling. Young people have a thing about actual voices. Texting worked. And now here he is, walking up the block, glowing to beat the sun. My heart lifts. Nothing was wrong. He's late because he's been falling in love. That's the best use of time there is. It does me good to see him like this. Happy, in love, being loved right back. Whatever it was that brought him to my doorstep all those years ago, he hasn't let it deprive him of his happiness now, and I'm proud of him for that. I know better than most what kind of bravery that takes.

When he gets into the bakery, filling it with light, warming it like he’s a furnace fueled by happiness, I can't help reaching up and touching his face. He blinks in surprise as I say, as if he were my own son (or brother),

“I'm proud of you, love.”

He laughs (such a sweet laugh he has) and shakes his head (such messy hair, does he never take a brush to it?) and says,

“Proud of me for being late? There's a new one. I mean, I'm glad you're not angry. I'm really, really glad that you're not angry with me. But proud seems weird under the circumstances.”

“I mean for opening yourself up to this boy,” I say softly, not thinking of how it will sound. “For falling in love.”

Now he looks more confused than scared. And angry.

“How could you possibly know that? How the fuck could you possibly know what happened with Baz?”

And then he claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with shock and a touch of fear, and starts babbling.

“Oh my god, I didn't mean, I'm so sorry, I hope you don't, I don't want” and the poor child looks like he's about to burst into tears.

I've known Simon long enough now to know that when he lashes out at me like this, it's because something reminds him of his secrets. It's how I've managed to piece together some of what I think happened to him, and I file this reaction in with the others and understand a little more.

“Don’t be daft, Simon, I'm not going to have a fit over the word fuck. You should know that by now. And I'm not going to be angry that you're late. And I'm certainly not going to be upset with you for being angry with me. I love you, Simon. Nothing you ever say or do could ever change that.” He still looks shocked, though if it's over what he just said or what I just said, I don't know.

“And anyway,” I continue. “You have every right to be upset. I forget that people find it strange when I know things about them. But it’s nothing mysterious. Yesterday you told me about a boy. Today you’re glowing like a beacon, like a star exploding. I could see you coming from down the road. And the only thing I know of that can make a person look like that, is love. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn. It’s not witchery, just common sense.”

He smiles. “Sometimes I do think you’re a witch, you know,” he says, recovering quickly. “Just with an oven instead of a cauldron and a spatula for a wand.”

The idea isn’t so farfetched. My family always held with the old ways, there could well be witch’s blood in me. But there’s probably never been much more to magic-craft than the ability to use your senses and your heart at the same time as your mind. Harder than it seems.

I start plotting to myself how I can take advantage of the fact that he let Baz’s name slip just now. I still don’t know the right and wrong of it. I’ll just have to feel my way through it as the day goes on. Here I am, plotting, while Simon's guileless blue eyes look around innocently. But that's me, and that's Simon, and that's just how it is with people. Different as different. And ok just the same.

I notice those eyes now flicking around as Simon ties on his apron and washes his hands. In response to my quizzical look, he smiles a bit sheepishly. “I smell muffins,” he explains. “But I don’t see them.”

**Simon**

Now that everything between me and Ebb is cleared up, I realize how hungry I am. I suppose it has been an… energetic morning, and I haven’t eaten anything yet. I smell muffins, but can’t see them anywhere.

Ebb laughs. It's a warm sound. It sets me at ease. “You and those muffins. You don’t see them because they’re all boxed up for an order. Came in last minute,” she explains. I feel unreasonably sad that she didn't save one for me. The order was probably for an even dozen, but normally she would've made extra, knowing how much I like them. I suppose if I hadn't been late, that probably would've been what happened. Oh well. The rosemary olive bread is great too, and there’s a loaf already open sitting on the cutting board.

There’s a smooth rhythm between us, and we fall into it easily. Ebb sets the batters, I track the baking. She builds the cakes, I decorate them. Ebb is kind of a cake genius. She used to be a physicist or engineer or chemist or some complicated combination of the three. Then she channeled it all into cake. She built an edible model of the Brooklyn bridge for its 100th birthday around a million years ago, complete with tiny candy pearls for lights. Made her famous. Started the bakery going.

But before I came along, she says, her cakes were like clay forms without a soul. She says when I decorate them, it’s like I’ve written the name of god across their brows. Like I bring them magically to life.

While we work, we talk. She usually cries a bit. She’s big on crying. When I first started working here, she told me tears were her secret ingredient, then laughed so hard she just cried more at the horrified look on my face.

I can be a little gullible. And I’ve never met anyone like her before, so anything seemed possible. I don’t think there is anyone like her, anywhere. Strange how lucky and unlucky my life has been. It’s nice to be living the lucky part now. The part with Ebb and Baz. With childhood behind me. The part where I know I’m finally safe, where I get to make my own reality.

I feel happy and light and good. My mind is filled with Baz. I’m filled with his scent and with how it felt to have his lips on my skin. With the taste of his skin. With the electric touch of his fingers. With the feel of his smooth body under my hands. With the memory of his face, flushed and warm. His face smiling.

And also not smiling. Not smiling in that way that’s like a wince but from pleasure, not pain. Why do pain and pleasure look so similar? And sound so similar? Whimpers and moans and gasps. Furrowed brows and open mouths and closed eyes. And I made him look like that. And I get to make him look like that again. It fills me with a shiver, a frisson of expectant heat that rolls through me like a storm.

I save each thought and take them out one at a time to prolong my pleasure in remembering. The sound of his breath as he took off my shirt. The beat of my heart as I looked at his body in my bed. The impossible sense of peace and frenzy melded into a single perfect feeling. The way he looked, still in my bed, when I left. The color of his perfect ears as I whispered in them. The sweetness in his usually stoic face when he looked at me.

And his eyes. I think about how his eyes look when he looks at me. His eyes, and his mouth, and his hands. He looks at me like looking at me is its own form of pleasure. He looks at me like his life depends on looking at me. And I like it. And I like him. I like him so much. I love him, though I'm not ready to admit that. And I think he loves me too. And it's like, if that's true, then nothing can ever scare me again. Nothing can ever really be bad ever again, not if he loves me. Not if I love him.

I listen to Ebb chatter as I paint little ornaments onto a tree made of cake. It’s her most popular cake at Christmas time. At some point I realize she’s asked me a question, and I have to admit to her that I haven’t been listening. She harrumphs at me good-naturedly and then repeats, “did you say the boy’s name was Baz?”

I suppose I must have, though I don’t remember. Or maybe she just divined it. Read it in the crumbs I left when I ate the bread. Who knows with Ebb. I like being reminded of him, though, so I don't care much how she knows his name. “Mm-hm,” I answer. “Baz. Short for Basilton.” I like just hearing his name. I like just saying it out loud. Now I can't stop thinking about him again. I want to start making the cake for him. I want to finish up here and go back home to him. Home. Him. I shake myself back to reality, so I don’t have to admit I wasn’t listening a second time.

“Unusual name. Old world. I knew a little boy once named Basilton. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, to be precise. A real mouthful.”

And now I am paying attention. Because it can’t be a coincidence. There can’t be two people named Basilton Pitch, can there? I never heard the Tyrannus or the Grimm parts, though. I listen more carefully to what Ebb is saying.

“Son of the sister of my best friend from school. Back in England. Fiona, her name was. She and Nicky were sweet on each other for a bit. After Nicky was gone,” and here she pauses for a little sob and some soul-clearing nose-blowing. She finally calms, and continues more briskly. “I moved to the states, read for my doctorate here. Fiona had an elder sister at Columbia, that’s what brought me here to begin with. Did I ever tell you this story?”

I shake my head, and reach for the next tree/cake. “No, Ebb, you've never told me about Fiona, or her sister. I don’t think I even knew you did a PhD at Columbia. Actually, I didn’t even know you could get a PhD in baking.” She looks up to see if I’m kidding, and hits me jokingly when she sees my smile.

“No need to be teasing me, now. You know I did my degree in physics. It was Fiona’s sister actually - Natasha, her name was - who told me that just because I was good at something, didn’t mean I had to spend my life doing it. I didn’t like physics. I liked baking. I liked making things, real things, and seeing people with them. She was smart, Natasha was. Youngest dean ever at Columbia. Youngest woman to be tenured here. And kinder than a berry on whipped cream. She was like a sister to me, took me right in when I got here and never let me feel I was alone from the first day I arrived.”

“It was her son, who was named Basilton. I tried to tell her not to do that to the boy. I told her, look what happened to my Nicky. My parents gave us those names. Nicodemus and Ebeneza. It was fine for me, but it’s not so easy for boys. I think I might’ve convinced her to leave out the Tyrannus. But she was dead set on Basilton. Then she called him Basil, Baz for short, which was right sweet actually. And so was the boy. Sweetest boy you’ve ever seen. Smiled all the time. He was a chubby little thing, always giggling a wet gurgling laugh.”

Hmm. Had to be a coincidence, then. That definitely doesn’t sound like Baz. And anyway, his mother’s name is Daphne. So I kind of tune out again. It’s a long, meandering story, and by the end of it Ebb is in tears. Which is usually how her stories go. I think her friend moved away. Or maybe she died? Or maybe the kid died? Or was it the sister? Oh well. No need to figure it all out. I’ve finished the cakes, so I sit with Ebb for a bit and pat her awkwardly on her back and bring her a fresh roll of paper towels when her first roll runs out.

By this time, every order is finished, boxed and ready to go. “All right, let's get started on that violin for your Baz,” she says. Shit. Baz’s cake. I’d forgotten I’d told her I wanted to make a violin. I only realized afterwards what a disaster that could turn out to be.

**Ebb**

“Oh, um,” he says, and I look at him curiously as he blushes and fidgets. “Well, I can't actually make him a violin.” He looks at me hopefully but I'm not letting him off the hook on this one without explaining. Truth be told, I was looking forward to trying my hand at that violin. I've never done string instruments with cake before. Plus I'm full curious by now. Their relationship is so intricate. And after that whole story, after a murder and a sweet baby suddenly left with no mum, I feel ok to pry a bit about a violin.

“Well, I shouldn't really, um. I guess. I wouldn't normally know. I mean, he doesn't know that I know. That he even plays violin. Except that,” and he's blushing to rival rosebuds now. “I kind of. Followed him? Around? All semester. I kind of followed him so I saw him going to the music building. And then I guess I kind of stayed in the hall while he played. And listened. That part’s not my fault really. He's good. Once I heard him, I couldn't not listen.”

I smile to hear this confession. It's not like Simon to follow someone around like that. Sounds like he's been bewitched himself. By little Baz. Music can do that. Natasha was always musical, Fiona too. Simon seems to be taking the whole story of the murder pretty calmly, which is a bit of a relief, though also a bit odd. I'd worried that telling him wouldn't be right, putting all that in his mind. But I'm not sure he made the connection. He's too clever not to have, though. Oh well, nothing left for it now than to wait and see.

We look around the bakery a while to try and get an idea for what Simon can make for Baz. There's a series of cakes I’d made for the opening of a children's bookstore. Simon’s always liked those. More clues for me. He settles on Paddington bear. Which is a bit of an odd choice in my opinion. But he's certain about it. And it is one of my best cakes.

The base is a book, and Paddington is sitting there with his little feet hanging over the side. Simon carefully crafts the hat and rain coat from fondant, and paints them to look shiny. He even manages the little note that says “Please look after this bear.” When he's done, I can see a bit more why he chose it. He's infused it with a kind of adventurous love. A plea and a promise and a declaration all rolled into one. Makes me cry on the spot. Simon brings me a fresh roll of towels, bless him.

Once we've boxed it up right nice, I shoo him out to deliver the other orders. I call Basil to come pick up the muffins while Simon's out. He’s just as reserved and polite as he was the other day, but there's a new light in his eyes that wasn't there yesterday. I breathe easier knowing he feels the same for Simon as Simon does for him. I wish I could find a hint of the smiling baby from the photo album, though. That seems to be gone completely. But there's always hoping. And if anyone can bring him back, it's Simon.

I’m surprised to find myself whispering a little prayer to the goddess as Basil leaves the bakery. Must've been all of Simon's talk about wands and cauldrons that brought it to mind. I'm surprised, too, that I still know the words. That they still hold their power for me. There's just something in the night, something about the bear and the muffins, about the sweetness of the boys and their secrets, that makes me want to cast a blessing on them both. And a extra blessing never goes amiss. The world could always use more blessings. If nothing else, it's already worked a bit of magic on me, and I walk home dry-eyed and feeling more at peace than I usually do this time of year. I chat with Nicky about it all as I walk, like I always do on Christmas. And I know he's listening, even if I can't see him. Even if I can't ever, ever see him again.

 

 

 


	12. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cake and potatoes and ice cream. Oh my.

_December 24, evening._

**Simon**

I walk back from the bakery with Baz's cake in a box, all fancy with ribbons and stuff that Ebb insisted on but that I'll probably get rid of before I give it to Baz. Now I'm starting to second guess my choice of Paddington. I know Baz's family is British. He's always saying shit like _bloody hell_ and _I reckon_ and _pardon_. And I've always loved that bear. I love the idea of a little fuzzy bear traveling the world eating orange marmalade on toast, ready for the rain and hoping to be looked after.

When I was little, my dad would read me books in bed when I was sick. He was always really nice to me when I was sick. I realized at some point a few years back that he'd do stuff to make me get sick. We read about it in some class, that people do that, it has a name. It was weird to read about it in a book someone wrote who never met me. But that doesn't change the fact that my few nice memories are from him making me soup and reading me books when I was sick in bed.

And sometimes Baz reminds me of a little kid. Even though that makes no sense. He's so elegant, and so controlled, and so competitive and so smart. But sometimes he gets this earnest look on his face. And I swear it's like I can see back in time to a little Baz with the same hopeful look on his face. But now, as I walk back to the dorm, I'm realizing that the cake says more about me than I'd like. And that I'm not at all sure how he'll respond to something so… cute. So not-sexy.

My slowly building anxiety is interrupted by the staggering mess that greets me when I walk into the dorm. The kitchen looks like it's been ransacked by a band of sugar-drunk toddlers. Every single pot and pan and spoon has been removed from the cabinets and drawers. They lie in heaps and trails across the counters, the sink, and the table. Every bottle of oil is out too, knocked over, empty. Three salt shakers. All empty. One little bottle of paprika, miraculously unharmed and still half full. Egg shells everywhere, like a chicken coop exploded. I stand in shock, trying to make sense of what could have possibly happened here.

When I look more closely at the table, I realize that the pots and bowls that cover it are upright. In one is a small pile of four boiled potatoes. In another is a messy stack of at last two dozen fried eggs, yolk dripping down the sides. And there are two plates, clean. With napkins. And silverware. Almost like…

“I made dinner!” declares Baz, who's been standing so quietly in the corner that I hadn't even seen him until he spoke. He looks at me expectantly. His open enthusiasm is so surprising that it takes a moment to register the words.   My worries about Paddington are banished by that look on his face. The sweet look of a little bear hoping someone else will be as proud of his marmalade sandwiches as he is. Or, in this case, eggs and potatoes.

**Baz**

I've just finished setting the table when Simon walks in carrying an enormous beribboned box. He quickly drops the box, forgotten, onto the couch as he looks around in shock. I can't quite determine the valence of his expression. I stand quietly, waiting for him to say something, but then my excitement gets the better of me and I shout before I can stop myself, “I made dinner!”

His head swivels to me and his eyes find mine. They fill with a crazy warmth, and his face barely has room for his giant smile. Then he’s standing next to me and his lips find mine and he's kissing me like we're in a sinking boat. I let myself sink too for a moment before I bob back up, floating on the bubbles of joy that explode when he touches me. Finally I pull back and tease, “not me, you twit. I made actual dinner.”

And he laughs (like I knew he would) and says “yeah, I noticed,” and then he's kissing me again.

**Simon**

He makes me stop kissing him, which would be more annoying if he wasn't so fucking cute about the whole dinner thing. Plus I am, of course, hungry. So we sit next to each other and devour the potatoes and eggs in between kisses and no food has ever tasted this good before. He actually blushes with pleasure when I say that and then I just have to kiss him again. Which he doesn't seem to mind, now that we’ve paid attention to dinner, so I do it some more.

When every bite of food is gone, we quickly move to our room. As our bedroom door closes behind us, Baz pushes me gently into it so that his arms pin me against the wall. I’m glad for the support as his mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my throat to my collar. My fingers shake slightly as I slide them under his shirt. Now his head falls back and it's my turn to graze his jaw, his ear, his throat. As he stumbles I pull him and we fall into my bed. Our breath is coming in panting gasps and he's so beautiful along my tongue. I feel everything. Every twitch, every tightening. I feel his desperate pulse and I know just when and where to touch him. I can hardly process what's happening what's just happened what oh what is oh and oh and then. Oh. and we’re both coming, hard and hot and wet and long and like nothing and like everything and like light and dark and breath and fire.

**Baz**

Afterwards we sit wrapped in each other on my bed, too lazy to clean anything from dinner. Or from after dinner. Content to just switch mattresses and settle into each others arms.

I’m too happy to be scared about how fucking happy I am. I'm too content to worry about what happens next. I'm too sleepy to control my heart or my face or my hands. I'm too comfortable wrapped in Simon to wonder how this even happened. I'm too sure he feels the same to slip into self doubt. I'm too in love.

I've never been in love before and now I'll never be out of it. I love him. He loves me. Crazy. Crazy, stupid, sublime, breathless. Just thinking about it is turning me on again. And then I remember the ice cream.

I got ice cream for Simon, and suddenly it is very important that he knows. Actually, I got three pints of ice cream because I wasn't sure what kind he'd like. So I leap up, ignoring the surprise that crosses his face. I'm quite confident of being forgiven. I walk to the kitchen (completely naked. It's going to suck when people start getting back from break) and return immediately with my arms filled with ice cream.

Fuck. I forgot spoons.

**Simon**

His enthusiasm over his brilliant dessert planning is hilarious enough to make up for the indecency of walking out of here without a word, leaving me to watch his perfect ass and wonder what could possibly be more interesting than me right now. I do manage to convince him that instead of leaving again to get spoons, we should find some other way to pass the time while we wait for the ice cream to melt.

We take our time now. Slowly, slowly licking, nipping. Stroking. Leisurely pressing. Less leisurely pressing. More desperate. Rubbing, pushing. Then more. More pushing and moving and grinding and teasing and pinching and sucking and holding and probing and pushing and thrusting and rocking. And faster and slower and faster again. And faster and faster. And then so so slow.

The ice cream is cold and our skin is hot and everything aches in the most glorious way. We fall asleep sticky and then wake up and shower and then get sticky again and get clean again and finally fall asleep again. And we sleep and sleep and sleep. And sometimes we wake up and we kiss and then we sleep some more. Everything around us disappears. There is only this, only thus, only us, only me, only him, only skin, only love.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been asked this a couple of times so I figured I'd add a note. Making your kid sick and pretending to be a hero when you take care of them is a real thing. It's called Münchausen syndrome by proxy. And it seems like a good metaphor for the Mage and Simon in Carry On, where the Mage abandoned Simon and then rescued him and was therefore seen as a benevolent father-figure.


	13. Christmas Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit sweet. By which I mean, it contains ice cream and cake and cranberry muffins (of course). And violins and guilt and declarations of love. Love of cranberry muffins (of course).

 

 **Simon**  

Baz is crying and someone’s ringing the bell and knocking on the door of the suite and I freeze. “Siii-mon!” I hear Saraya calling through the door. “We know you’re in there! Come on! We’ll be late for the movie if we don’t go eat right now!”

Fuck. I forgot about Christmas. I mean, I didn’t forget about Christmas, I just forgot about Christmas. Fuck. Christmas, the day my friends and I eat greasy Chinese food and see cheesy movies. We’ve reconfirmed by email and text like ten times.

But the beginning of this week was two lifetimes ago. And five days ago, Baz hated me. I thought. Three days ago I thought he maybe possibly kind of liked me. But not in a way that meant I was going to cancel on my best friends. For our annual ritual. On our last Christmas in college. By yesterday, well, you know. I thought maybe he’d come with me. But I forgot to even ask him because I was... distracted. And today. Today was today. So. Fuck.

I mean today was good. And then it kind of was and wasn't. It's not that it wasn't good, it's that it was terrible. But a good terrible. Or maybe not. Fuck. I'm so bad at this.

Deep breaths.

This morning. Christmas morning. We woke up, together, in my bed, naked. It was pretty much the most amazing moment of my life. Kind of even more amazing than getting naked had been in the first place. Which was pretty amazing. I mean it was other things besides amazing too. I’m so bad at words. What's the difference. No words could ever even come close. I'll stick with amazing.

I smile thinking about how Baz got me three different kinds of chocolate ice cream, because he wasn't sure what I liked best, but he _was_ sure about the chocolate part. Haagen Dazs and Ben and Jerry’s and some small-batch super fancy kind that I have to admit kicked the ass of the supermarket ice creams. Hmm. Ass. His ass is pretty cute. Everything about him is pretty cute. He was so funny and proud of all his ice cream.

I've always loved ice cream (I mean, obviously) but I'd never had it quite this way before. The ice cream was… amazing (fuck you, thesaurus). So cold. So sweet. So sticky. So slippery. So delicious to feed each other. So fun to lick off one another. I fished all the chocolate and nuts out of the New York Super Fudge Chunk. (Which, for the record, is my actual favorite. Which made Baz all kinds of smug. Which I now find cute. Smug is now cute. I'm a lost cause.) I ate them very, very slowly, until Baz couldn't take it anymore. He jumped on me and I laughed and we kissed and it was fucking amazing.

But anyway. That was last night. Focus. This morning. Naked. Amazing. (Shut up.)

Then the morning turned kind of shy. A morning that didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. And then I realized. It’s Christmas morning. And the box with Baz's present was still just out on the couch in the other room. And it still had all those idiotic ribbons all over it, and maybe I should take them off. But maybe I shouldn't. Plus, I needed to pee. So we agreed to get out of bed and do whatever and then give each other presents.

I was really excited that he had gotten me something. And I was so glad I'd decided to get him something. And I was kind of scared about it. But I was pretty sure he was too. So it was a nice kind of scared. A shared scared. And I was excited. Did I mention that? I was pretty excited. About getting a present.

Actually, I was basically bouncing up and down. Baz said I was driving him crazy so I better go first. He gave me a box. And I smiled even before I opened it because there were all the bakery ribbons. And actually the ribbons are kind of nice after all. I'm glad I left them on. Then I tried to kiss him but he pushed me away laughing (he has the most amazing (ugh) laugh) and saying I had to open my present first. And he had an I-don't-care look on his face which means he's really nervous.

Then I opened the box and started smiling even more because there were So! Many! Muffins! At least three dozen. All cranberry. All for me. And then I kind of started crying. Because there were three dozen cranberry muffins all for me. Which I just said. But it was seriously a lot of muffins. Crying was a little embarrassing but it was the nicest and best present I've ever gotten. How does he even know I like these? Who the hell gets someone this many muffins?

Oh! Ebb must have told him. Ebb knew. She knew these were for me! That's why she didn't make me any extra muffins. So he must have talked to Ebb. He must have gone all the way to the bakery. He must have timed it so I wouldn't be there. He must have talked to Ebb. The thought of him doing all that. For me. It was. It was just. It felt really nice, knowing he did that. For me.

Baz started to look panicked when I started crying so I quickly stopped and told him I love the muffins and I love him and the muffins are perfect and so is he. He rolled his eyes but his mouth couldn't stop smiling. So I stuffed a muffin in it.

Then I ate like three muffins in two seconds. It was a decadent muffin moment. I could eat as many muffins as I wanted. I could eat them as fast as I wanted or as slow as I wanted. Because I didn't have to try to save them. I didn't have to worry about later. About what if I want a muffin later. Because there were so many muffins. Like, more than I could even eat in one day. Maybe.

It was, I don’t know. It was intense. The idea of having enough, of having so much. Of not having to save part of my new treasure for a future when I might not have anything. I almost started to cry again.

I'm fucking turning into Ebb.

I guess there are worse people to turn into.

 

**Baz**

I practically run to the bedroom in relief as soon as the doorbell rings. My head is reeling from the emotional roller coaster of the morning. Which started out as a pretty good morning. And then became something else. Something other. Not bad. Just. Something I don't know how to think about.

I was feeling really bad about having gotten Simon nothing but some muffins for Christmas. What was I thinking? Just getting him something he eats every other day anyway. And last night was so… full. I want to give him something real, something that will last. Something that takes up space. Something with gravity. Not a pile of fucking muffins.

Needless to say, I was stuck with the muffins. I had nothing else. I brought out the box with a reluctant drag of shame and uncertainty. Then he smiled so widely I thought for sure he was messing with me. He hadn't even opened the fucking box yet. Then he tried to kiss me and I thought yup, he's avoiding opening the box, he's already disappointed.

But the kiss was so genuine, it surprised me. I laughed and thought ok, but still. He needed to open the box so I could get this over with and apologize and explain that I just didn't know in time. What to get him. Didn't know what I was allowed to express. What I was allowed to give.

Anyway, he opened the box. And saw a bunch of muffins. And I'm about to explain and then his face kind of crumpled. And I thought, oh shit, I really fucked up. I made him feel bad, giving him such a shitty nothing of a present. I totally panicked. The words all stuck in my throat.

Then he looked up, and his eyes were red and there were actual tears running down his face. And I thought, the muffins can't possibly have been _that_ terrible. Like crying-level terrible.

Then he rubbed his hands over his eyes and pulled himself together quickly. And then. Well. Then, he told me he loves the muffins. In this voice, this choked up voice, like he's saying something that is deeply emotional to him. Which made absolutely zero sense. Either he was really fucking with me for some unknown reason, or. Or he really was overwhelmed by getting muffins as a present.

Understanding snapped into place so quickly, it was like mental whiplash. It was literally painful, the wrenching turn from thinking he thought the muffins weren't good enough, to realizing that he felt that they were the most wonderful present anyone could get. Enough to cry about. As if I had given him… What? I can't even think of something I could've given him that would've made him react like this. In fact, I got the bloody muffins in the first place because I didn't want to get him anything that might reveal too much about how I felt. I guess that part of the plan backfired.

And suddenly I could see him, really see him, clear as day. He has nothing. He has no one. Muffins make him cry. He won't get any other presents. But he's not disappointed. He's thrilled about the stupid fucking muffins. All the things I used to think of as a pretentious and insufferable act - his ostentatious poverty, his extreme non-materialism, his acting all worked up about injustice and inequality. None of them were a fucking act. None of it is an act. It's all real.

I can't reconcile this level of abandonment with the golden, perfect, happy Simon I knew and tormented all semester. My stomach twists and my heart squeezes at the memory of his face when I asked him when he was going home. I'm ashamed of my own words, the words that brought that look to his face. I can't even remember them exactly. Or any of the other shitty things I've said to him over the past months. But I didn't know. How could I know? How could I _not_ know?

I don't want to spend Christmas with my family either. But they're still my family. My little sisters made me cards. I'm going to FaceTime with them later and open the presents together, while they open the ones I sent them. That's what I think of when I think of a miserable relationship with your family. You hate your parents, maybe. But there's still someone. Little sisters. Aunts.

Anyway, all of that flashed through my mind in like a second, after he tearfully proclaimed his love for the muffins. Then he kept talking. Then he said he loves me. In the same kind of voice. With actually fucking tears in his beautiful, unremarkable, endless blue eyes. How is this even possible? Him feeling that way about me. I know now that it's even more impossible than I'd thought, back when I was miserably, furiously, pointlessly in love with him. A million years ago. Last week.

And it should be impossible. I'm an asshole. I've been so mean to him. I never do anything nice for anyone. I never-

As if he could read my mind, he interrupted my monologue of self loathing and told me I'm perfect. The muffins are perfect, I'm perfect. With this smile that suddenly replaced the tears and practically burned my retinas. I rolled my eyes at him. But then I realized it's like everything else. Like everything other thing he'd said and done that I've always rolled my eyes at for being so hyperbolic. But he truly meant them all. And he truly means this.

He loves me. He thinks I'm perfect. For a second, I see myself though his eyes. For one second, I am what he sees. I am perfect. I can be loved.

In the next second he's laughing and trying to stuff a cranberry muffin in my mouth. I can't help laughing too. The laughter is real but it's only a small step away from crying. It's a confusing, overwhelming feeling of love and happiness and sadness and gratitude and regret and compassion and admiration. Another word that needs inventing, apparently.

So. That was the emotional state I was in a couple of minutes (and at least four muffins) later. When Simon gave me my present. A giant box that was clearly from the bakery too. All wrapped in ribbons, which kind of got _me_ choked up. Which was ridiculous. But, ribbons, from Simon. It was so nice.

And then I opened the box. There, on a giant cake, was Paddington Bear. Sitting on the edge of the book-cake, small paws dangling over the edge. He's wearing a tiny little raincoat and a perfect little hat. He's eating a teeny tiny piece of toast with what I assume is orange marmalade. And. There's a little note. Paddington’s little note.

_Please look after this bear._

And I'm five again. (Again. This is the effect he has on me.) I'm confused and proud and terrified. The flowers behind me, my father in front of me. And then the feeling of relief, of safety. Fiona coming in. Holding a little bear. Taking me in her arms and whispering to me about the flowers and showing me the little bear who can go off on adventures because he will always, always, have someone looking after him.

It's all too much. Simon, who has no one looking after him. Giving me Paddington. The image of Simon making the little rain hat. For me. The image of Simon writing the little note. For me. It's too much, and my eyes sting and I realize I'm crying. I look up at him and see in his face the same panic I felt a second ago, when he cried over the muffins.

The two of us are a mess.

I tell him I love it. I start trying to tell him more. Something. About why. About Paddington. About Fiona. But I'm getting scared because it's all too much. But I don’t want to let him just stand there with that look on his face and no idea why I'm crying.

Crying. This is insane. I don't do crying. I don't know who I am right now. I try to calm down, to take a deep breath.

And then the doorbell rings and Simon looks up and voices start calling for him through the door and I go escape to our room to regain my fucking composure.

 

**Simon**

Baz stands up as soon as he hears the bell ring and walks into our room. I follow him immediately, ignoring the doorbell. “Baz,” I try to say, softly, but he cuts me off. His eyes are already dry, his face already resetting into its usual emptiness. My heart twists.

“It’s ok. You should go let them in. It’s totally ok. You should go.” I’m staring at him, and he smirks at me.

“Snow. You’re staring. It’s not polite. Or attractive. And you need to answer the door.”

The knocks have gotten louder, and now I hear Annika sing-songing, “ready or not, here we come! Simon, you _know_ Aimee is going to just pick the fucking lock. We know you’re not ready, you never are, you’re always late on Christmas. Just open the damn door, you goofy fuck, and we’ll swarm in and rescue you from your fashion dilemmas.” Then they’re all giggling and I’m frozen in place. Ridiculously, what’s going through my head is, _not attractive? Should that hurt my feelings this much?_

My feelings. Not relevant. I’m obviously not leaving. I walk towards Baz. But he’s a different person now from who he just was a few minutes ago. Closed off. Not mean, not angry. Just, closed. Not the same person I was just talking to. I still haven’t really said anything. I stop walking when he speaks again.

“I’d really prefer that you go, actually,” he says now, quietly. I’m ashamed of how much that hurts. “Please. Go. I don't want to talk. I don’t want to deal with people. They’re not going to go away. It’s no big deal. They’re your friends. I’ll see you later.”

I stand there, trying to think of something to say. He looks away.

“Snow. Go. I’ll see you later,” he repeats. I turn around, defeated.

“Hey,” he calls out. I turn back around, hopeful. But he just tosses me my coat.

“Don’t forget your coat. It’s snowing.” I catch it and I try to smile but I think I’m going to cry. His face is impassive. There’s no point in staying here. I walk out into the living room. I open the front door. And I leave. With them. My friends. I leave him.

I leave his half-told story about Paddington. I leave his tentative, fragile willingness to tell me about the dark and the monsters. I leave the name he just spoke. Fiona. Which means he _is_ the Baz from Ebb’s story. Ebb’s story, that ended in tears, only I still don’t know why. I leave it all, go to the door, walk out with my friends. The least I can do at this moment is spare Baz having to talk to anyone. Especially me. _I’d really prefer that you go, actually._

So I go.

 

**Baz**

It shouldn't hurt this much that he left. I’m the one who told him to leave. Four times. Or was it five. But still. I didn’t actually want him to leave 

After everything that just happened, how can he leave me? But everything that just happened basically just happened in my head. The things I said out loud were only go, go. Go. Stupid fucking syllable. But he left, and it hurts. It hurts anyway. It's not his fault, but it hurts.

That's the fucking problem with caring this much. It's a stupid, self destructive thing to do. To fall in love, to care so much that I'm hurt even when I know it's irrational. To lose all rational control. I can’t believe I almost told him… Almost. Almost told him too much.

We just need to back this up a little. We just need to go more slowly. We just need to care less.

I feel a little better. I decide to go do what I always do when I don't know what to do. When I know I shouldn't let myself wander. I head for the music building.

The ritual of tuning the violin, fussing with the bow, rolling my neck before tucking the violin under my chin. It calms me. The violin is like a voice in my ear. Like someone on my pillow, whispering in my ear. Like Simon, whispering in my ear. The music soars and my heart soars with love before I remember that I'm not supposed to feel this much. That I think it's love but it's really just another form of hurting myself. I need to care less. I repeat it to myself, engraving it onto my heart with the bow and the words. Care less. Care less. Care less.

It's soothing. I feel myself regaining the only thing I really have. Control.

Until the thought of Simon caring less, too, rips the words right off my heart. I miss a note. I don't miss notes. I don't fucking make mistakes. And anyway, he doesn't care that much to start with. He doesn't. He left. (Because I told him to.) (But still.) (But his face.)(he left)(he didn't want to)(he hurt me)(you made him leave)

And then I realize what a fucking narcissist I'm being. Consumed with anger at Simon for leaving. Not thinking about the fact that he'd just opened himself to me, too. That he'd just taken the same risk. Let his mask slip. It wasn't just one way. He let me see him. And then I threw him out. I told him to leave. I told him to stop looking at me. I told him I didn't want him. Me. I did that. I hurt him and here I stand, angry with him for hurting me.

And I hate myself so much in that moment. I feel so sick, sick of myself, of the way I am. Cold. Empty. A monster.

And it still comes down to not caring. For his sake, too. All I do is cause pain. All I can do is hurt. It's better for him. That I don't care. I don't care that much. I don't.

I've been playing for hours. I finally decide to take a break. Now that the music has stopped, I hear something muffled that sounds like my name. I walk into the hallway. The sound is much clearer here (the practice rooms in the music building are intended to be soundproof, but I have good hearing.) It's definitely my name. It's also definitely Simon who is calling it. Or more like screaming it. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

He hates me. He came to tell me off for throwing him out. He wouldn't do that. But something’s wrong. Fuck. He's hurt. Someone hurt him. I'll kill them. I'll fucking kill them. But. _I’m_ the one who hurt him. Fuck. But then what is he doing here, screaming my name?

I drop my violin and fly down the stairs. I can be inhumanly fast when I feel like it. Simon is standing in the lobby of the building. He's a spectacle. He's dripping with rain and muddy slush. He looks terrible. He looks frantic. It's hard to know if the water on his face is rain or tears. My heart stops for a beat. All pretense of not caring is washed away by my fear for him.

I'm at his side in an instant. “Simon,” I say breathlessly as I reach him. “What is it? What happened? What happened to you?”

He stops screaming my name and blinks at me and kind of jumps back.

“Jesus Christ, Baz, how did you just appear out of nowhere like that,” he asks. I'm peering anxiously into his face and don't quite process the question.

“Simon, what’s wrong?” I repeat, my heartbeat starting to slow as I see he's ok.

“Um,” he starts to say, and then he pauses and looks at me strangely. “You called me Simon.”

I'm utterly confused, and as the panic fades I'm starting to feel annoyed. “Yes, of course I did, that's your name, isn't it?” I ask, more snidely than I meant to. Old habits and all that.

He doesn't seem put out, though. He's just grinning and dripping slush onto the beautiful hardwood floors of the old building.

“You never call me Simon. You always call me Snow.”

“What? What are you even talking about? For the love of Christ, Snow, will you tell me why you're standing here looking like the lone survivor of a freak avalanche?”

“Aha!” he says, pointing at me. “There. You just did it. You called me Snow.”

I groan and put my face in my hands and wait in vain for him to explain himself. “Ok. Snow. Whatever. What happened?”

“I actually like Simon better,” he perseverates. “It’s just, you always call me Snow. And just now you called me Simon. And I like it better.”

I glare at him. “For fuck’s sake. You nearly gave me a heart attack. What the actual fuck is going on?” I need to calm down. I don't know why I'm yelling at him. I never know anything when he's standing in front of me.

He looks repentant.

“I guess I missed you?” he says finally. I glance up at him and he's blushing and looking at the floor. I'm torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to strangle him.

“You what? You missed me? You ran here screaming my name like a lunatic because you missed me? Simon, you just saw me like two hours ago. You're supposed to be at the movies. What the fuck happened?”

“I… I just. I felt. I felt really bad. I felt like shit,” he says quietly. So quietly that I have to lean in to hear him. “For leaving you alone, for leaving, when we'd just been talking and, um, you know…” he looks really anxious now, and sad. How can his face transform so quickly, so completely? “And I was sitting at the table. Waiting for the fucking wonton soup. And. I just, I don't know. I couldn’t stand it. I had to leave. I mean, I had to come back. Leave the restaurant. Not you. I had to find you. But you weren’t home. Or on the steps, or in the library. You weren’t anywhere.”

“You’ve been running around in a fucking blizzard looking for me for two hours?” I ask, not able to process being loved like that. He nods, looking at the floor, then looking at me, sadly. Hopefully. I give in to myself and put my arms around him.

“You're an idiot, Simon,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says with a growing smile that is like the sun rising. He’s rising and I’m falling and his light is catching me, filling me. “You called me Simon,” he whispers, and I just shake my head.

“I have to go put away my violin, and then we should get you some dry clothes,” I say, stepping back.

“Can I come with you?” he asks eagerly.

“Absolutely not. You're a mess. You'll drip grey New York City slime on everything,” He looks so sad that I add, “maybe a different time, ok?” He brightens immediately and I sigh inwardly. What is it about this boy that makes me give in so quickly?

A thought hits me as I'm coming back down the stairs, having properly packed up the violin (which wasn't damaged, luckily for Simon) and locked the practice room.

“How did you figure out where to find me?” I ask as we walk outside. Snow is falling hard now. I mean, the snow. Not Simon. Though he is too. And so am I.

He shrugs. “You weren't in the room and I couldn’t find you in the library and you weren’t answering when I was calling you all over campus. This seemed like the next place to look.”

He's right (obviously), but there’s only one way he could possibly know that.

“How do you even know that I play an instrument?” I press. Simon's face is blinking between sheepish and wolfish in a way that makes me want to kiss him. Everything just makes me want to kiss him. But first I want to make him admit he's been following me for months.

“I'm sometimes in the music building,” he says, shrugging again. Attempting nonchalance. I let my eyebrows do their thing, and he squirms (gratifyingly) and adds, “on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 1:45 in front of room 234-A. You know. Sometimes.”

And then we're both laughing, slipping in the snow and holding each other up. I decide that was close enough to a confession. So I let myself do what I've been aching to do since before he left. Before I told him to go. What I've been trying to tell myself I don't really want. I catch his face in my hands and kiss him.

I'm in love. There's no point in trying to fight it. Self destructive or not, I'm in love. And maybe it doesn't have to hurt. Or maybe it doesn't have to only hurt. Maybe there's a place in the world where I don't have to pretend. A person, not a place.

A person whose fingers catch in my hair as he pulls me to him. “I missed you,” he whispers into my mouth. I grin and kiss him and then whisper back,

“Yeah, me too. I missed you too. Simon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In re-reading this myself, I'm not sure it is clear, but most of what happens in this chapter, or I guess just the second half if the chapter, is intended to be a layering of this world onto the canon Christmas Eve.)


	14. Christmas, about 2 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Christmas. Life is so exhausting sometimes.

**Baz**

We end up deciding to eat before going back to the room. Simon doesn’t care about being soaking wet, and neither of us has eaten since this morning. It seems easiest to continue the meal he broke off before ditching his friends to search for me. So we head to the local pan-Asian for noodles.

“Strange day, huh?” Simon says. Or at least I think that's what he says. Maybe I just hear what I've been thinking, but too scared to say out loud. It's hard to tell when he's mumbling around a mouthful of udon. Talking with your mouth full is a good strategy when it’s hard to know what to say. Maybe I should try it. But that would require having my mouth full in the presence of someone else. Not my style.

He’s right, of course. It has been a bloody strange day. I can’t wrap my head around it. It makes me queasy, and I leave my soup half uneaten. Simon told me he loves me. Said those words. I love you. Which should make me happy. It's more than I ever thought I could have. Given to me like a gift on Christmas morning. Given freely, easily, openly.

And that's the fucking problem. It was too easy.

Though he stutters and stumbles around them, words don’t seem to cost Simon anything. And something without cost is uncomfortably close to something without value. He said “I love you” for the first time as if he’s said it a hundred times. He can just state “this has been a strange day,” when I feel like trying to address what’s happened in the last 24 hours is like trying to stare directly into the sun. I don’t think he’s fucking with me on purpose. Probably. And it’s not exactly that he’s being emotionally manipulative. He's just fearless. Or lacks the good sense to stop himself from saying something stupid. Or both. Unfiltered. So when he gets something he likes, he declares his love for it and for the messenger who brought it. Everything is an exclamation point with him. Muffins! I love them! I love you! I love Thursdays!

It’s beguiling, alluring, intoxicating. But it's not real. I wince at the memory of my thoughts this morning. I felt like I was having a bloody epiphany. Simon as some shining tragic hero, his eyes turned bluely toward me in rapturous love. It felt so real to me. It took a few hours for the glamour to fade. Hours before I could again see reality in all its dreary glory.

The choices can’t be limited to hatred and worship. If I can get a fucking grip, I should be able to just have a normal relationship with him, like a normal person. Where we kiss and maybe we fuck and sometimes we eat noodles. As long as I protect myself a little more actively from getting sucked into the Simon Snow show. I need to go slowly enough that there's plenty of time to remind myself between scenes how it's inevitably going to end.

He's looking at me, and I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to say something. I should say something. Some of what I want to say. I want to explain it to him, lay it out clearly. But it’s hard to know what to point to. Nothing bad actually happened. I don't want him to misunderstand me, but I'm not sure if I even understand myself.

This is what I come up with: “Maybe we should set up some ground rules before we go back. So it doesn’t get strange again?”

That seems to work.

“Yeah, ok,” he says. “Rules. Ok. What kind. I mean, what. What were you thinking?”

 

**Simon**

After the thrill of finding Baz in the music building and the relief of finally eating, the unease that’s been hovering in the background since this morning rises up to the surface. The silence between us goes from the silence that accompanies hungry people chewing, to the silence that sits heavily between two people not dealing with something.

For a minute or two, neither of us breaks the silence.

I take a bite of noodles. At least I can prolong the silence of chewing to mitigate the silence of unease. But mid-bite I get mad at myself for being such a coward, so I break the silence with words.

All I can manage is a half question. “Strange day, huh?” I'm embarrassed because the chewing and the speaking should have happened in sequence, not in parallel. I shrug it off. It's not the first time I've talked with my mouth full, and it won't be the last. Sometimes I talk with my mouth full just to show myself I'm free. That nothing bad will happen if I misbehave.

I swallow the noodles and wait, until Baz finally responds.

“Maybe we should set up some ground rules before we go back,” he says, after a pause. “So it doesn’t get strange again?”

Rules. The word makes me feel ill. He didn’t ask me what I meant by strange. And I don’t have to ask him what he means. I’m the one who made it strange.

I admitted that I loved him. Out loud. Like a lunatic. And he said nothing. Like a sane person.

I was so drugged by the miracle of last night that I forgot this is not how the world actually works. That the feeling of cosmic rightness is just my fucked up brain chemistry wanting everything to be everything. No one else goes through life like this. I’m pretty sure that Baz doesn’t hate me anymore. He might even like me. But he’s obviously not in love with me. No one but me does anything as stupid as mistaking sex for love. I’ve built a universe out of three days and then forgotten that to the rest of the world, that’s a working definition of insanity.

I’m determined not to make this any weirder. I’ll just go with whatever he’s thinking, and try to ignore the dread in the pit of my stomach. Maybe he has an idea. Maybe he’s done this before. Maybe there’s something simple that will make this easier.

“Yeah, ok. Rules. Ok. What kind. I mean, what. What were you thinking?”

“Maybe just...less,” he offers. “Or slower? Or less _and_ slower?”

I feel humiliation coloring my cheeks.

There’s nothing specific. No strategy. Just less of me. I’m not enough and I’m still too much. I want too much, say too much, need too much.

I told him I love him, and he told me as politely as he could to go. Over and over again. And then I tracked him down and burst in on him while he was going about his private day. And now he’s telling me to kindly step the fuck back.

I see myself as if I’m him. I imagine walking into our room, being Baz, seeing me. I imagine myself too loud, too big, flinging myself on him, pushing him with my wishing, my wanting. Waking him up in the night. Pulling him to my side in bed when he tries to leave. I'm ashamed of the cake I made him. I'm ashamed of my uncensored, unveiled reaction to the muffins. I'm ashamed of my loud voice calling out his name. I promise myself to be smaller, to be quieter, to take less.

 

**Baz**

“We can back up as far as you want, Baz. I'm sorry for. Everything. For being like that. For being too much. I can stop. We can back up. As far as you need. And move forward as slow as you want.”

This is what I wanted. If I could have scripted his lines, these would be them. So why does it make me feel so empty? Like I'd crossed the fence and found the greener grass, only to discover that I preferred yellow all along?

Being uncertain and confused isn’t going to help anything, so I nod crisply. I try to channel my father, to radiate control the way he does. I say something along the lines of, “good, then. I'm glad that's sorted. I'm sure it'll all be ok in a week or so. Are you done eating? I'm ready to change into dry socks.”

It's clear that he's not done eating, since every morsel has yet to be licked off every plate, but I can't stand to sit in this air anymore. The air from all these words that I spoke, but can't bring myself to own.

I start to leave money on the table but Simon's eyes flash dangerously as he pushes it back towards me.

“I can pay for myself, Baz. All you ate was some hot and sour soup and half a cup of green tea.” I sigh and turn towards the door as he carefully counts out the rest from his own wallet, and we leave.

I want to protest. Isn't he always writing diatribes about the unjust distribution of wealth? This doesn't seem like the right moment to bring up hypocrisy in politics, though. So I say nothing, and soon we stand awkwardly beside one another on the frozen street.

We start walking even more awkwardly back to the dorm, just close enough to be together, just far enough to not touch. I walk briskly, keeping my hands in my pockets to prevent them from embarrassing me. His hands hang invitingly at his sides for half a block. Just as I'm deciding to stop being such a fucking coward, he slips them into his pockets. Mine are caught midway back out, fingertips warm behind the wool of my coat, palms stung by tiny bites of hail.  

Out of the corner of my eye I see Simon watching the ambivalent dance of my hands and my pockets. He catches my eye, takes his hands halfway out of his own pockets, and then unleashes a sly smile on me. I raise my eyebrow in lieu of smiling but take my hands fully out of my pockets. He does the same. I finally take his hand. His smile shifts. Not quite as crooked, nowhere near as blinding, and far more personal. I slip my arm around him tentatively, and breathe more easily as I feel his arm loop around my waist and his shoulder lean into mine. I want to kiss him but I'm not sure if I'm allowed to anymore.

“So, a week?” he asks, not quite looking at me. I have no idea what he's talking about. I fall back on the time-tested strategy of raising one noncommittal eyebrow and remaining silent. Simon shrugs. His own fail-safe. He continues. “New Years, then? May I kiss you on New Years?”

Still clueless, but trying to maintain a light tone, I banter back. “Well, I suppose. But not until midnight.”

“Midnight it is, then,” he replies, his grin turning stiff. “It's a date.”

I'm not sure what just got decided, but it doesn't feel like something good. What the fuck is my problem? Did I really just spend the last hour pressuring Simon into a week of abstinence? Who the fuck do I think this will benefit? At least my feet will be dry in just another few minutes. That's the only thought I can find to comfort me as I trudge chastely beside the object of all my dreams and fears.

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Christmas, 4 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We know it works out ok. They don't, yet. Having to live in chronological order sucks, even if you're a fictional character. Maybe especially if you're a fictional character? We're all fictional characters, aren't we, anyway?

> **Simon**

We head straight home after that excruciating conversation. At least he took his hands out of his pockets. At least he's holding mine. I don't want it to feel as good as it does. Feeling his arm around me. Leaning into his side. It's hard to feel it all at once. The humiliation and the comfort, hand in hand. So to speak. I've never felt anything like it before. I can't tell if I love it or hate it. I can't tell if I love him or hate him. Or if there's any difference between those two feelings at all.

We walk in the door, and are confronted with the staggering mess Baz made yesterday trying to boil four potatoes and fry some eggs. I'd forgotten all about it. I start giggling. The stress is getting to me. “You are never allowed to make fun of me for being messy again,” I say with mock severity as I throw my coat on the couch.

He looks annoyed as he carefully hangs his coat up, but only for a second. Then he kind of smile-smirks. “At least my mess has a purpose,” he says grandly. I snort in response.

“You’ve never cooked before, have you?” I ask, teasing. He blushes. Which is cute. But then my mind starts doing its thing, wandering down useless paths. Thinking about what it would be like, growing up without having to cook.

We had a cook who worked for us too, actually. Or, more accurately, for Davy. I wonder what she thought about being instructed to cook for one person, when she knew two people lived there. She probably thought I was a fussy, finicky brat who wouldn't eat what was put in front of him. Sometimes I'd come home just as she was leaving. Sometimes she'd still be in the kitchen gathering her things when I started making my own dinner out of whatever I was allowed to eat that day. She would look at me in annoyance, as if I'd personally insulted her. But I could never explain myself, so I'd just shrug and smile. Two gestures that have gotten me through a lot.

I'm certain that whatever she thought, it wasn't anything like the truth. Davy. His games. The consequences of my inevitable mistakes and failures. When there was unspoiled food I could use, cooking wasn't so bad usually. Once I got tall enough.

Once I got the hang of fire.

Cleaning was usually worse. The things he made me touch, made me eat, made me do. The worst times were when it would start off being about something else. Then turn. I have to close my eyes as a deluge of unwelcome images ricochets against the walls I've built in my mind. The stench of shit. The taste of vomit. Swarms of insects. Rot. Filth. Cold. Dark.

The assault of phantom senses, haunting my skin and mouth in the present.

My breath grows shallow, my hands sweaty. I want to cry, but I can’t. This can't happen here, now. In front of him. Baz.

Fuck. I think Baz is saying something. Shit. I must have totally blanked out.

This is the fucking definition of too much. This is the fucking point of the whole fucking conversation we just had. It's not going to fucking happen. I'm bigger than it. I wipe my mind clear and desperately try to switch back to the present.

I manage it. I shut it down. I listen to my breath as it slows and becomes normal again. I listen to the sounds of the room around me return. I keep myself still until I'm fully in the present again.

I open my eyes. I try somewhat successfully to smile. I walk to the kitchen, to the sink stacked with dishes and pans and bowls. There's an uncomfortable silence between us for a beat. And then he breaks it.

“You ok?” he asks. Soft but direct. Grey eyes burning into mine.

No.

“Yeah. Just got distracted by the Sisyphean task facing us,” I answer with another fake smile, gesturing at the piles of sticky cookware and pools of oil dripping from overturned bottles.

I think I'm handling things pretty well. Maybe not. He's looking at me weirdly. Oh. School Simon doesn't say things like Sisyphean. Or think chores are an epic-scale trial you can only lose. What's wrong with me? I'm leaking out all over he place. I've got to get this under control.

Maybe I'm hungry. I should have finished eating. I shouldn't have said yes when he asked if I was done. Even though I know it was a fucking rhetorical question. And a slightly mean one. Better to confront the weirdness of answering a passive aggressive non-question than deal with the aftermath of a panic attack. I shouldn't let myself get hungry. I know it pushes me closer to the space where the other Simons still live.

But I didn’t. I ate. I’m not that hungry. This can't just be hunger. I'm not hungry enough to be this out of control.

Then I know.

It's the filth, the smell of a kitchen left to rot for a day. I couldn't have prepared for this. Even if I'd remembered that the dorm was such a mess, I wouldn't have known. I know about the dangers of hunger. I didn't know about the cleaning. I haven't had to clean someone else's mess in a long, long time.

I feel a shuddering dread snag deep inside me. I feel sick, trapped, furious, helpless. I try to remind myself that this is different. It's not someone, it's Baz. It's a mess he made while doing something sweet for me. He didn't purposely leave the aftermath here for me to clean up. It's not about the unspecified rules he just set. He didn't think about it in advance. It’s not a trap. He's not used to cooking so he's not used to cleaning up after himself. He’s not trying to humiliate me. He's not using it to expand my endless list of faults.

I repeat it to myself. This is Baz, now. Not Davy, then.

It doesn't matter. Reality never does. And I’m still reeling from the conversation we just had, about rules. About too much, about trying to be less.

Knowing that the present and the past are distinct doesn't help me. They blur. It’s like knowing that time is a dimension, same as space. I know it's true. I believe Einstein. I took physics. But knowing it’s true doesn't make a fuck of difference to the human experience of space-time. It doesn't make me feel like it's real, in the living context of every day.

I can't change space into time. And I can't keep the past from coexisting with the present.

I turn the faucet, wait for the water to heat up, start on the dishes. I’m ok. I’m chatting and smiling. I've got this.

Baz doesn't buy it. I don't know if I'm disappointed or relieved. He puts his hands over mine to still them.

“Hey,” he says again, turning the faucets back. “Can't we wait and clean up later? I don’t feel like doing it right now.” He raises his eyebrow reflexively, but doesn't really try to hide the lie in his eyes.

I let him turn off the water. I let him drag me to the couch. I let him pull me to him and wrap his arms around me. I let my head fall back to rest on his chest. I let myself close my eyes. I let myself imagine that this can work. That I can live a normal life where dirty dishes and white lies don't destroy me. A life with someone else in it. In the privacy of my closed eyelids and the shelter of Baz’s arms, it seems real. I know when I open my eyes and let reality back in, it will fade as quickly as any other fantasy. But I don't have to do that just yet. I can hold the fantasy just a little longer.

**Baz**

Soon after we walk into the dorm, Simon goes quiet and strange mid-conversation. I don’t think he's heard anything I just said. Not that it was worth hearing. I was trying to make excuses for my privileged ineptitude. I am embarrassed by how embarrassed I feel for not knowing how to do something so basic as cooking. I can’t look at him.

He’s so quiet. My anxiety gets the best of me, and I look up. Simon's standing in the same spot. He’s here, but not really here. It's disturbing.

I struggle for a full minute as he stands there, not moving. His eyes are glassy. I’m scared. Finally I work up the courage to break the silence. I am about to speak. Not sure what I'm planning to say. Before I can make a sound, though, he moves. His eyes turn to look at me, his face shifts and reanimates. I think he's smiling but it's hard to tell.

He must have sensed the change in my posture, the infinitesimal shift of my facial muscles preparing to speak. Monitoring me so closely from wherever he'd disappeared to, alert for any movement.

I've seen this before. In rehab. Some of the other people there. The stillness. The hyper-vigilance. The telltale residue of chronic, daily, unrelenting terror. The ability to shift from desperately lost to pleasantly normal in a heartbeat. Keeping hidden in plain sight.

Simon. I shiver. I hate myself all over again. Why do I have to keep relearning not to underestimate him. I feel like I’ve never really known him. He's hidden it so well. For so long.

I want desperately to take him in my arms. To shield him with my body. To apologize for everything I just said. To promise him that I will be vigilant for him, so he can let go. To promise I'll keep him safe. To promise that he can stay here, present and awake, when he's with me.

But I don’t. I just threw away any right I might have had to that. Telling him over a plate of greasy noodles that I'm not ready for this. For what? Having actual bloody conversations? Letting myself give a fuck about someone who isn't me? Being with someone exuberant, someone who isn’t afraid to admit to love?

This might be a chance to redeem myself. To take it back. To apologize. To stop being such a prick. To make us both free of having to lie to each other.

Maybe it is. I'll never know. Because I'm a bloody coward. Instead, I say hey. I ask if he is ok. Knowing he’ll say yes. Knowing the answer is no.

I watch him start on the dishes and my tongue is frozen in my throat and I just. Can't. Can't anything. Can't stop him, can't let him, can't watch him, can't tell him, can't ask him, can't promise him. Can't look at him.

I’m not sure what I'm doing as I move. Nothing near what I should be doing, I know that much. But I turn off the water, say something meaningless. I get him to the couch, sit next to him. Let him sit in silence. After a few minutes, he gets up and walks into our room, closing the door. I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen. I check my email. I facetime with my sisters. Then I can’t put it off any longer.

When I venture into our room, Simon’s curled up around himself, still fully dressed, already asleep in his bed. It’s too early for me to sleep. But I sit on my bed anyway, watching him. Trying to figure out what I want. What I’ve done. Who he is. Who I want to be.

It’s too confusing. Both versions are incompatibly compelling.

Is it this: What I know of Simon is the tip of an iceberg that’s managed to stay frozen and hidden in hell. And this afternoon, in response to him saying he loves me, I’ve told him that the small amounts of himself he’s letting me see are just too much for me. I’d prefer if he please hide a little better, for a little longer.

Or is it this: It’s too soon to cry over baked goods. It's far too soon to be making declarations of love. Last week we didn’t even speak. We are going too fast. I am a cool-headed, reasonable man acting in everyone’s best interest. Whatever just happened to Simon is evidence that this is emotionally overwhelming for him, too. That slower is better for him, too.

Either way, it is certainly this: The first time someone actually makes me feel something other than disdain or boredom, I react by blaming them. I self-righteously chide them for rocking the sterile boat I’ve isolated myself on for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand on solid earth.

Which changes the story I've been writing with him to this: once upon a time, a sad boy named Baz was cursed to live a waking nightmare of grey monstrous solitude. A handsome prince named Simon broke the curse, returning light and color to Baz’s life. When he woke up, Baz attacked Simon. He shouted at him to please close the shades, the sun is quite too bright. He coldly asked Simon to keep the noise down. “Can’t you see,” sneered Baz, “that I’m in the middle of a cursed sleep here, and you’re interrupting it with all this kissing.” So Simon left, Baz fell back asleep, and they both lived miserably ever after.

Always knew I couldn't write for shit. Fucking stories.


	16. December 25, December 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas will end. With its holes and its humdrums, its accusations and hiding, falling and flying. But there's still the night to get through.

**Baz**

I must have fallen asleep watching Simon, because the next thing I know, I’m waking up. I’m confused. It’s dark. I’m still in my clothes. It’s very disorientating. I can't figure out what woke me. It’s not Simon this time. The room is quiet. Simon's quiet. He’s not having a nightmare. I must have been, if I woke up, though I can't remember it now. I listen to the sounds of Simon's breath, planning to fall back asleep to the reassuring rhythm. And then I figure out what's wrong.

The room is too quiet. Simon's not screaming. But he’s not sighing and mumbling and tossing either. He's usually an astonishingly loud sleeper, even when he's not dreaming. But right now he's quiet. Too quiet.

It’s a very specific quiet. One that my half-asleep brain recognizes with stomach churning familiarity. It's the quiet of not-screaming. Of holding the sound tightly inside. So you don’t wake the others. So you won't get in trouble. So they won't hear and come to your door and tell that if you wake them again they’ll give you something to really scream about.

The others. If I'm not the one being quiet, then I must be the others. Simon is the one who's quiet. Which means I'm the others. I’ve become his others. The ones he hides from.

It hurts. I can’t believe how much it hurts. I can’t really parse the pain. Am I hurt for myself or hurt for him? Am I hurt because I know I hurt him? Hurt him enough that he has to hide from me in a way he never hid before? Not even back when he thought I hated him. Back when he probably hated me. Or am I hurt that he’s rejecting me? What level of asshole-ness have I descended to?

I strain to listen to him in the weak dark of the night. I can faintly hear his muffled breath. He's pulled the covers over his head and turned his head into the pillow.

I do the same, becoming 7 again. Staying quiet quiet quiet until I can fall back asleep. But I can't sleep. My heart hurts and my eyes sting and my not-sleeping mind can't process why I let myself shatter what I wanted most to protect.

I hear Simon get out of bed. Walk to the door. Open it almost silently, close it behind him just as silently. He leaves. I stay. I have no right to follow him. I have no excuse to do anything but remain here, alone.

**Simon**

I’m thrust out of sleep violently, with a hand over my mouth holding it closed so I can’t scream. It’s my own hand. I’ve woken myself so I won’t scream.

I’m immediately awake, fully awake, fully aware of why I can’t scream. Baz. I can’t scream in front of Baz. I’m too much. He wants me to be less. But this is what I fucking am. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck this whole shitty fucking world. It’s not worth it. Whatever it was I thought was worth it, it’s not.

It’s not worth a new set of unspoken rules I’m bound to break. Rules that say I just have to be other than what I am. Less of whatever I am. There’s no way but to break them and suffer. And I’m not doing this again. Never. Never again. That’s the one thing I’ve managed to do right. I’ve never gotten into another fucked up relationship where I need to always hide. I have to keep relearning it, but I do. There’s no scenario where I am safe, unless I am alone. It could be worse. It has been worse. This is better than it could have been. Better than it used to be.

The sound of Baz breathing nearby doesn't bring me comfort tonight. That's fine. This isn't a night for comfort, anyway. It's a night for holding myself together and reminding myself that I am enough. I'm all I need. Liking and needing aren't the same. Wanting and needing aren't the same. I don't need comfort. I'm not a child who needs to be held by the hand and guided through the spiky coastline between waking and dreaming. I never have been. I'm not now. I am enough.

The power and weight of being enough sits heavily. I feel it on my lungs, over my heart, above my ribs. It keeps me still and makes me strong and squeezes an agony in my chest. This is right. This is familiar. This is a pain I know. I already know how this turns out. It turns into every morning of my life. And my life now is good. I've made it good and I can make it good and I will keep making it good. Enough. Ok. Still.

I can enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass, because I don’t expect it to cut itself for me every day. I can enjoy the taste of fresh bread, because I don’t expect it bake itself for me every day. I thought I could enjoy the warmth of being with Baz, so long as I don’t expect him to wake up every morning still wanting me.

I was wrong.

Love comes with rules. Rules I’ll break and suffer for. So I turn my face into the hot dark of my pillow and pull the rest of the dark up and over and around me and remind every corner of myself why I am alone. Why it has to be this way. Why it’ll be ok this way. Why there’s nothing to look at out there. Nothing to see here, nothing to wait for. Nothing to want. Outside myself there’s nothing. Inside myself there’s nothing.

But right now, in this room, there is too much. There is Baz. So there is too much me. I have to get out of the room. Luckily I sleep in my clothes. I slip out quietly. I’ll come back before he wakes up. I won’t try to plan beyond that. Night is for surviving, not planning.

**Baz**

Simon is back before I wake up. He smiles and chats this morning with such ease that I think I must have imagined last night. I suppose it's possible that I imagined all the rest of yesterday, too. I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that everything hurts.

From Simon’s monologue, I gather that he’s getting ready to leave to work. I'm surprised that he's working today. But in our newly-tense-again sort-of-relationship, I'm hesitant to say or ask anything I'm unsure of. Which is everything. Like whether he really needs to work or is just avoiding me. And everything else, no matter how safe it should be. Will I see him later? Are we having dinner? Are we dating? Can I kiss him? Can I see him? Can I spend all day thinking about him? Can I sink my face into his pillow while he's gone and whisper all the things I'm too proud or scared or ashamed to say to him?

So I remain silent as he chats and gathers his things into his backpack. When he has nothing left to procrastinate over, he stops and looks at me, finally awkward too. Still I say nothing. I am scared that if I open my mouth, I will cry. He sets his face, and shrugs. “Later, then?” he asks. Noncommittal. Nonspecific.

When did I get so greedy? A week ago, I would have given anything to talk to Simon like this. For him to treat me as any other member of his crew. All smiles and light conversation and easy plans. But now, having had a taste of who he is when he’s truly himself. When he’s not hiding. When he’s real. Now this feels like a blow to the gut, like it sucks the oxygen clean out of me. I almost prefer his hatred. The defensive suspicion of the past months at least felt real. Or specific to me. Or something. Special.

I’m pathetic. I prefer specific pain to generalized benevolence. Best to keep this to myself. So I don’t lose everything. Better not to show how much it hurts.

“Sure, why not,” I reply, trying too hard for airiness and instead achieving arrogance. Which I fail to correct before he pauses briefly at the door and then is gone.


	17. December 26th, morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ebb's point of view on the day after Christmas. In which we learn about compromise.

_Boxing day, 9 am_

**Ebb**

When Simon walks in to the bakery, I can see that some of the light has gone out from his eyes. I scold myself for not checking in on him yesterday. Hard to know with that boy what the lines are. But it hurts more than it should to see the shadow over him today. His spirit shines blue through those eyes nevertheless, always does. But it should be unfettered, if there was any justice in the world. Which there isn’t, never has been. There's no gain to be had in pretending.

He shouldn’t even be here today, when the whole world is meant to be at rest. I lost that argument years ago. He had the cheek to tell me that people who earn hourly wages don’t get paid vacations. I told him not to try and tell me my own business. But he told me that if he wasn’t working here, he’d just be finding work somewhere else. And I knew it to be the truth. True then, true now. No good my telling him that where I come from, he wouldn't need to work this much. That it’s the government pays for college same as for school. Or that there’s no work should be done without some rights to go with it.

All the same, it was plain as butter that being alone with naught to do over the holidays would be more a curse than a blessing for him. So we reached a compromise. Or at least it would’ve been a compromise, had he known about it. I’m not above delaying the truth when it’s called for.

So I compromise on his behalf, every summer and winter both. Times when a body should have a rest. I put the extra wages he should be paid aside for him in an account, and let it wait for him until he’s ready to hear reason. Meanwhile I’m not sitting with guilt in my soul watching the child work without break, and he doesn’t need to admit yet that he’s straight wrong about this one.

There’s a few other things I haven’t quite told him yet. I have a room ready for him at my place. I heed the voice that tells me he’ll need it before long. And I’ve written a building over to his name to live in when he’s done with working himself to death. I’ve more than I need, always have. Whole buildings more. That’s the way of Mammon, follows some people without being asked and hides from others. The money’s no doing of mine, no more than the shape of my face is my doing. And now that I know what I’m meant to do with it, no boy is going to get in my way with his stubborn nonsense about what’s mine to give as I please.

I’m not full foolish though, so I’ll wait to let him know, when the knowing will be for the good. I’ll wait until the situation makes itself clear. Which I fear it’ll do soon enough. I’ve started to know more and more what it is I’m still doing in this wretched city. The time’s fast approaching when I’ll be free to leave, to find my green, to tend my goats. But for the first time since arriving, I’m not sure that’s what I’ll choose to do even after the choice is mine to make.

But still, sadness on the boy is a shame if ever there was one. I hadn’t realized quite how my hopes had risen with his. Just two days ago. It’s like that, hope. Comes and goes fast. Even knowing what I know, I’m not much for giving up. And I’m not one to avoid a little meddling. So I’m worked into a bit of a knot, and I chew it over as I let Simon get lost in his day.

**Simon**

It’s a relief to be back in the bakery. It’s a relief to be busy. For the past couple of years, Ebb and I have hosted what’s turned into a week-long party between Christmas and New Years.

It started as a compromise. The first year, Ebb hired me over Christmas, so she didn’t make a fuss when I worked the full week between Christmas and New Years. It was a very slow week, though, and I felt pretty guilty about her paying me to not do much of anything.

The second year, she tried to tell me I was supposed to “be on holiday” for the week. Which I thought was her way of firing me. It was almost a disaster, actually. Since she and I are well matched for stubbornness, and I beat her handily for fear.

Luckily, her superhero witch-senses clued her in before I just left and never came back. She explained that she wasn't telling me I was out of a job. She was telling me that she wanted to pay me to not work for a week.

Which also nearly turned into a disaster. I was angry and hurt and ashamed that she thought I needed to be given something I hadn’t worked for. She was all insulted that I thought she was trying to give me charity when she said she was just acting like any decent employer. We agreed to chalk it up to cultural differences. Especially when she discovered that when she'd said that at the very least I shouldn’t be working on Boxing Day, I thought she was talking about a sporting event. But we were still left with the question of how to construct a week that didn’t hurt either of our feelings or violate either of our ethics.

What we settled on was making food for a week for kids who weren’t in school. This way I could work, and she could consider it volunteering. And she could take the money she wanted to pay me for doing nothing, and use it to pay for the food.

Of course, being Ebb, she couldn’t leave it at that. Soon all the other restaurants and businesses in the neighborhood got involved. Then PAL donated the space, and the result was a sort of drop-in party every day from noon to four over the public school break.

It was so popular that the whole neighborhood basically showed up, and everyone brought something. So there was music and face painting and basketball and story telling and now we advise a bunch of community organizer groups who want to set up something similar. There are lots of programs for lunch during the summer break, but nothing for the shorter breaks. So it caught on.

It was the first thing I did that made me realize I could do things. I mean, make things happen that wouldn’t otherwise happen. Good things. I’m not saying this right. I mean, it was the first time I thought there could be a point to me. That I could feel something more than just not-scared, or that I could try to do something more than just hide. It was the first hint of what my life could be about beyond surviving it.

The first morning is always crazy busy, though, since we don’t come in on Christmas so almost nothing is ready in advance. And crazy busy is exactly what I need right now.

As I check on timers and coordinate food drop-offs and answer the phone and direct traffic and solve the inevitable last-minute crises, everything else fades. The approaching reality of graduation. The ever-present fear of Davy. The still-raw absence of Penny. And. Baz. Gray eyes. Black hair. Rules. Less. Loss. All less scary in the light of day, because it’s all inevitable. I know what I can and can’t have. I can’t always control what I wish and want. But I can get a handle on it. It doesn’t have to burn me to ash. It can just sting.

**Ebb**

We're just starting on preparing the overnight dough for tomorrow's bread when the front door jingles open. I leave Simon to the bread and go out front. Mostly people are wanting cookies when they pass a bakery Christmastime. So the front is filled with cookies. Every kind there is, and then some there isn’t.

I tell myself to go still when it's Tasha's boy that I see standing there. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a touch pleased to note the light gone from his eyes, too. I hold myself back from lecturing him about having a care not to just be toying with Simon. That would be much even from the likes of me. And I'm still young enough to remember that the old trying to tutor the young in love never works out the way you'd hope. Besides, it still may chance that he's just here for cookies. So I wait.

When he realizesthat I'm not going to say something (the least protection I can give Simon is to make this boy a touch uncomfortable) he clears his throat.

“Good afternoon, ma'am. Is Simon available?” I allow him a smile for his stilted trouble and wave him to the back. I manage not to warn him to take my Simon carefully. But I watch him. I see gingerly approach Simon. I don't miss the relief and love on his face when Simon turns towards him and smiles. Nor do I miss the ways those feelings are mirrored on Simon's own. Well. You'd have to be bloody blind to miss what happens on Simon's face. Basilton's, on the other hand, requires a finer skill.

I see the hesitant approach, the awkward consultation. Their backs are to me. Simon’s intent on his dough, and Baz is intent on Simon. It shows itself just then, clear as the skin on a new hatchling.

They're walking the same path, on opposite sides of a shared divide. The longing to be seen. Desperately wishing they could be known and still wanted. A wish they’ve both forbidden themselves from feeling. Divided by the agony of feeling it nonetheless. Blind to the parallel taking place on the other side of that divide. The terror of being found lacking, of being seen and then abandoned. Basilton because he's frightened that it will happen. Simon because he's certain it already has.

“Close up for me, will you, Simon?” I call, and get a wave in return. Best I can do for them now is leave them be. There's no meddling that can fix this but time. And time can be counted upon to stick her long fingers into everyone's business. I'll give them the space to be near. Stand beside a mirror long enough and surely you'll eventually catch your own eyes staring back at you.


	18. December 26, about 5 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has spent the day in silence, drinking. Thinking. Getting ready. And finally, acting.
> 
> Simon has spent the day making his peace with being everything he needs, so he doesn't need anything he may not be able to have. And Baz interrupts him. Which is so fucking unfair. Simon knows all about unfair. He can deal with it. But still. Still.

_Boxing day, 5:30 pm_

**Simon**

I hear the front door open, close. I hear footsteps walking to the back. They’re not Ebb’s. My heart flutters at the thought that it’s Baz. I stomp down hard on the butterflies. They're doomed anyway. It's not a crime to step on something beautiful when you know you're saving it from a slower, more painful death.

It’s not Baz. I don’t even want it to be Baz. Baz hurts. I got away, and I want to stay away. I might sleep here tonight. I have to be back early anyway. I don’t want to see him. I don’t.

I look up. It is Baz. It’s actually Baz. My heart flares. It refuses to let me stomp anymore. I sense the butterflies quickly fleeing to refuge, waiting to see what will happen next. Stupid fucking bugs. This isn’t how self-pity tantrums are supposed to pan out. Can’t I just be angry in peace? Why does he make me smile even when I’m trying to hate him? Asshole. I stop smiling.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I try to make my voice match his for sheer cold indifference. He blinks. He looks kind of ragged. I look again. It’s just in my head. He’s never ragged. He’s sharp. Always. All ways. Lines and angles. Hairline and cheekbones on crisp display. I shake my head to clear it.

“It’s not fair,” I say. I’m not sure what I mean. So I keep trying. “You shouldn’t. It’s just. Not.” And then I know, but I don’t say it. It’s not fair to come here if you don’t want me. You can’t make rules and then track me down so I have nowhere to hide. You can’t have it both ways.

He smirks at me infuriatingly. “Use your words, Snow.” I want him to hurt. I want to hurt him. It scares me. I’m not like this. This isn’t like me. I don’t want this to be me. I have to get a grip.

“Fuck off,” I mutter unconvincingly. He laughs. And then he looks repentant. He takes a hesitant step towards me. Hesitant is nice. I feel so tired. So tired of this. I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what he’s doing here, in my space. I wish Ebb had told him to leave. I’m acting like a petulant child. So I shrug it off, adjust my posture, and suck it up. Make the best of a bad situation. My fucking forte.

“So,” I say, turning back to the flour I’m measuring. “Lock yourself out of the room or something?” He doesn’t say anything. I keep myself from rolling my eyes, but just barely. Fine. Whatever. I can play nice. “Sorry,” I go on. “What’s this about? Did I forget something? Was I supposed to call? What time is it, anyway? Are you-”

“Stop talking, Simon,” he says.

“I think I like Snow better after all, coming from you,” I let myself say. Going for the lowest blow. The student surpasses the master.

He flinches, but acquiesces. “Snow,” he says. “Be quiet. Let me speak.”

I want to be angry, but his voice stops me cold. He sounds terrible. I turn around. He’s gone pale. Now I am kind of alarmed.

“Baz? What’s going on?”

**Baz**

I’m such a fucking coward, even when I’m trying not to be one. Even when I drink myself to conviction and think I’m acting on it. I still fail. I immediately slip back into the person I’m trying so hard not to be. I smirk. I make fun of him. I act completely opposite to how I feel. I hate myself. I see him take me in, turn his back, make his choice. He asks polite questions. Treating me like a stranger. Like an imposition. Not even worth his time to be properly angry with. I did this, and if I can’t undo it, I don’t deserve anything more.

I have to make Simon stop talking. If I don’t say the rest, this whole humiliating episode will have been utterly pointless. I promise myself not to breathe until I finish what I came to say.

**Simon**

“I,” he starts. Then stops. Then closes his eyes. “I know it’s fucking idiotic to close my eyes but fuck it. I've already been a complete idiot. And I'm scared to look at you in case I don't go through with what I want to say. I am seriously no fucking good at this.”

The words are ominous but his voice is pleading. I let myself focus. Listen to what he's saying.

“I'll close my eyes too, Baz,” I whisper. I don’t know why. It seems like a good thing to do. To say.

He takes a breath, and speaks. If it were me, I'd rush though whatever I was trying to say. I know how quickly courage leaves you when you speak. But he doesn't. He speaks slowly, clearly, deliberately. And I'm shocked by the power words can have when spoken like that. The power to make me believe.

“Simo- Snow. I'm sorry.” His eyes stay closed, but his voice steadies.

“I put it all on you. I’m scared. So I made it about you. And that was a seriously shitty thing to do. And I know it. And I usually get away with it. Making it about everyone else. But the thing is, I can’t stand it. I couldn’t stand it last night. I hated this morning. Now that I know what’s it’s like to be near you when you’re here. I mean, really here. Now that I know, then when you're not, I hate it. I hate it when you’re hiding and now I know you’re hiding and you’re hiding from me and it’s reasonable because I’m being an absolute ass. And now I’m going to open my eyes because I am not going to be such a fucking coward when I apologize to you.”

I don’t recognize this person who’s talking to me. I’ve never seen this version of his spirit inhabit this body. He _is_ ragged. I could see, and then I made myself blind, and but now I make myself see again. His ripped edges. His gripped fingers. His sad eyes in his pale face. His shaky breathing.

He opens his eyes and looks straight at me. Eyebrows down where everyone else’s usually are. Mouth a straight, earnest line.

“S- I’m sorry. I said less.” I can't help flinching at the word. He notices. He misses a breath, makes a fist, presses his nails into his palm. I notice. He keep talking, but he sounds so much sadder. His voice is stripped raw. Like he's saying goodby. Or is it hello? Or is there a difference?

“I said less, slow,” he repeats. “I said, less. But. I don’t want less. I want more. I want everything. I want you. I want this. I want it all. I’m terrified. I don’t know how to want the right way. I know how to not care. I know how to be addicted. I don’t know if I can manage something in between. When I care, it becomes too much. But that’s me. Not you. It’s not your problem. It’s me. It’s mine. The too much. It’s me. I thought it would be better to not have. Not want. But it’s terrible, Si-. It’s terrible. It’s terrible. I don’t want to not want you. I. I’m falling in love with you. I want all of you. And it’s too much. But of me. Too much of me. Not you. Never you. I want all of you.”

I’m still frozen. I take it back. I don’t want to hurt him. Because this is awful. Like watching a tiger lose its fur. I don’t know what the fuck that even means. Like watching something glorious fall apart. I don’t know what to do.

“How about some tea?” I ask, wanting to offer him something, but unsure of what I have. What he wants. Tea is a stupid substitute for love, or hope, or forgiveness. But it's easy. Such a simple syllable. A single letter. It's kind of British, like he is. It rhymes with “me.” I'm babbling inside my own head again.

“No,” he says, reaching out “Don’t, yet. Don’t say anything, yet. Ok? I have to. I have to finish this because I’m pretty fucking sure I’ll never manage to do this again.”

I don't really want to listen to this. I'm scared of where this is going. I don't know if this confession precedes a withdrawal or an advance. I'm terrified either way. I make myself listen. I can at least have the courage to listen, when he's found the courage to speak.

“I’m really sorry, Sim- Snow. Snow. I’m sorry and I want you to give me another chance. Even though I’m probably going to fuck it up. That’s my thing. Fucking things up. I shouldn’t even ask. But I am. Please. Don’t go away like that again. Ok? Don’t. At night. Go quiet like that. Don’t smile at me like that in the morning, like I’m someone else. Don’t listen to me when I tell you to be less. Don’t let me be an asshole. Don’t let me lose you. Because I’m so fucking afraid. So afraid. So. Ok, I’m done now, I think. Snow. I'm sorry, Snow.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches his hand slowly toward my face and runs his fingers along my tears.

“Simon,” I say into his hand. “You can call me Simon. Ok?”

“Simon,” he breathes. “Simon. Please. Simon. I love you, Simon. Please.”

I don't want him to talk like this anymore. I can't stand to watch him like this. So I quiet him. I step forward, I press my lips to his. Just barely. I breathe in his scent. He smiles. There's nothing sharp about it. I step back slightly, and he moves forward.

“Simon. Simon, Simon, Simon,” he repeats my name, a song, a chant. A spell, pulling me towards him. Our faces are close, his hand still on my cheek. “Simon. Thank you, Simon. Simon, I love you. I’ve loved you. For a long, long time. I love you.”

I take his lips gently in mine, and then move back a fraction of an inch. I pause. I know I have permission. But I want him to give it to me. I want him to show me that he means it. And he does. He smiles again. I feel it more than see it. He whispers Simon warmly against my lips, and then moves slowly to breathe it along my jaw. Simon. Against my ear. Simon. Down my neck, across my shoulder. Simon, Simon. Back up along my Adam’s apple, my chin, to my lips. Simon. Everywhere his breath touches me comes alive.

I stand perfectly still. He keeps moving until I’m shivering. It feels so good. He keeps his hand on my face but wraps his other arm around me. He stills me, pulls me against him. He whispers again. Simon. And he kisses me. He brings both his hands up to my face, and holds me gently in place as he kisses me. Gentle but fierce. My arms slip around his back, my hands span his waist just above his hips. I pull, and he’s against me, and there’s nothing else. We’re both making sounds that weave together. Breathing and speaking. Crying and laughing. Murmuring, humming. All so quiet and still and full.

He moves his lips away from mine and rests his forehead against my temple. “I want you,” he breathes. “I want this. Whatever this is. Whatever I can have. I want it all.”

I want him too. I know it will get painful again. There’s still so much silence separating us. It’s not the end of hurting. But it’s not the end of loving, either. It’s not the beginning or the end. It’s everything in between. And it’s good. Holding him is good. Being kissed by him. Forgiving him. Being seen. Wanted. Being wanted, after being seen. Being loved.

So I say yes. There was never really a question. He already had me. But it's different, to have someone when they want you. And when they know they're wanted. It all tumbles around. The wanting and having, the moving and tasting, the grasping and aching. Boundaries blur. My boundaries always do. But now there's someone safe to catch me when I start to dissipate. For now. And now is all there ever is.

 

 

 

 


	19. December 26, 6:30 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz. Drinking sweet tea. With Simon. Surrounded by Ebb's little goats.

**Simon**

There are tables and chairs out in front, but Baz and I end up drinking our tea sitting beside one another on the floor. We’re in the cozy not-quite-a-nook where Ebb has set up her tea things and her generous stock of goat figurines and paper towels.

My hand feels warm in Baz’s cool one. I feel good. Even the butterflies feel safe enough to have gone to sleep, leaving me calm. I let myself savor the simple experience of sitting on the floor beside Baz, watching him drink his tea. (Which he takes with three sugars and plenty of cream. Which is even funnier than the flossing.)

I turn my head so I can see him better. He looks almost soft. His hand curves to hold the round cup. His neck curves as he leans his head back slightly to rest on the wall behind us. He looks pale, and tired. But not ragged, not sharp, not broken. He catches me looking at him and smiles. He smiles. He doesn't smirk. I’ve seen him without clothes, but I've never seen him naked like this.

He runs his thumb in circles over my palm. I shiver. Then I blush. Then I smile. We sit there smiling at each other in the soft quiet. I don't know how long we sit here like this. I feel the fabric of my life expand and shift around me. This is a stable point. A moment of perfect balance.

His smile tugs at my mind and I think of the picture in Ebb’s album. Where he's glowing with the easy joy of a small child who knows he's loved.

I have to show it to him. The album. If I don't show it to him now, it'll transform. It will become a secret I never intended to keep. It will be something I can't ever show him, because I should've already shown it to him.

**Baz**

“There's. Um. Something you need to. Something I need to. To show you,” says Simon awkwardly, as he stands. I already miss the soothing warmth of his body beside mine. But I watch with patient curiosity as he walks to Ebb’s desk and lifts up a book.

I can't suppress a warm sigh as he settles back down beside me. I lean into his warmth, and he smiles a small smile and kisses a small kiss just above my eyes.

He forgives me. He loves me.

I tilt my head, shift my chin, touch my lips to his. He runs his tongue along my bottom lip, which he's taken slightly into his mouth. I let my lips part, I breathe. And we kiss. It feels different from when we first kissed. Better. Up until this moment, I would've denied anything could ever be better than that kiss. But this is. It feels certain. It's like something’s been decided, and now there’s no doubt. We get to do this. To have this.

He pulls away slowly. There's something in his eyes I can't read. He pushes something into my hands. It's the book he'd stood up to get. It was only seconds ago, but the kiss erased everything else and I'd already forgotten all about it.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It's a photo album. Ebb’s album. She showed it to me after you came by to order the. Um. Muffins?” His voice stumbles a bit on the last few words, and I look up from the book. He’s avoiding my gaze.

I’ve destroyed the memory of the moment he opened my gift. A moment of openness and joy and love. I told him later that I didn’t want him. I distorted what had been beautiful and made it ugly. He may forgive me, and it might all turn out ok. But I can't unbreak what I've already broken.

I stole his pleasure in believing he was loved, his comfort in knowing he was wanted. He has nothing and I stole it from him anyway. Because I break everything. I want to say this but I can't. I've run out of words. And I've run out of strength.

I kiss him instead.

He meets my eyes again, kissing me back. But only for a moment. He places his hands on mine, over the book. We open it together.

The first few pages are filled with the young smiling faces of people I don't know. I flip through those pictures quickly. Then there's one of Ebb and a boy who looks exactly like her. I turn a few more pages, wondering why on earth Simon thinks I need to see this. And then my fingers freeze along the edge of the old fashioned, plastic-covered sheet of photos. There's Fiona. With. With… Ebb? And her arms around the boy who looks like Ebb.

“Ebb knows Fiona? But how? How did she know her? How did she know me? How could she have known that Fi is my aunt?”

**Simon**

Baz’s voice is filled with wonder, not suspicion. I wish we could just stop here and head home and never find out what lies in the remaining pages of the album.

“Yeah. Ebb knows stuff she really shouldn't know. She’s like the spiritual equivalent of Sherlock Holmes. It can get creepy.” I rub my hand across the back of my neck. I know it makes me look nervous. But that’s ok, because I am nervous. I hear myself say “there’s more, Baz.” He accepts this, and turns his attention back to the book.

I watch him turn the pages. It’s hard to know what’s going on in his head. His face gives so little away. Maybe I should give him some privacy? Not watch him look through these? But then how will I know if he needs me? Rationalization or not, I go with the instinct to keep my gaze fixed on him.

Soon he stops turning pages. I peer over his shoulder. There’s a picture of Ebb with a beautiful woman. Tall. Pale. Dark. She’s not smirking or doing that eyebrow thing in the picture. But she somehow gives the impression that she was doing exactly that, just before the photographer caught her on film.

That has to be Baz’s mother. Daphne must be his step mother. I struggle to remember the name Ebb used. I’m pointlessly furious with myself for not paying more attention. Story of my fucking life. It was something Russian sounding. Natalia? Nadya? Natasha. Tasha. That was it.

He’s running his finger lightly over the picture, tracing the line of his mother’s standing form. “Ebb knew my mother?” he asks, voice just on the edge of hoarse. “Ebb knew my mother. How? What does... oh.”

He’s turned the page. There’s a series of pictures of Natasha and Ebb and Natasha’s belly. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen Ebb look. Natasha is glowing, one hand over the bump and the other around Ebb. Baz is so quiet now that I have to monitor his chest to see if he’s still breathing. I reach over and take his hand. He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

“Natasha- your, um, - she was Ebb’s... Ebb came to New York to be near her. I don’t remember all the details, just that Ebb loved her. And that she took Ebb in and made her feel. Safe?” I’m probably projecting a little, but I’m also probably not too far off. “She loved you, too, Baz. She knew you when you were little.”

I turn the page for him. There’s a picture of Ebb holding a very tiny newborn Baz. Tasha stands, looking tired and happy beside her. Ebb is beaming like she’d swallowed a lighthouse. Then there's Baz and a cake with one candle, his hands holding fists of frosting and a look of pure delight on his open face. I put my hand to his face in the picture. Then to his face, his real face, his face in the present. It’s wet, and I move closer to him.

My uncertainty has melted. I feel sure of my arms as they slip around him. My chin sits gently on his shoulder. I look with him, at the pictures of himself as a baby. He turns another page, and there are more photos. One of Fiona and Ebb, looking strained. Another with Fiona holding a two-year-old Baz, both of their faces transformed by laughter. A sweet picture of Ebb walking beside Baz, his chubby hand wrapped around her long finger.

Then time is going by quickly in the pictures, skipping straight to birthdays and Christmas. Then pages of other people, people we don't recognize. And then pages and pages and pages of Tasha. Only Tasha. Followed by the edges of pages that were violently ripped out. And then nothing.

I take the book gently out of Baz’s shaking hands and wrap myself around him. He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into me and hides his face in my chest and cries. His crying peels something off from inside me and leaves me raw. I bury my face in his hair and say nothing. There isn’t really anything to say. I hate when people try to say something when there’s nothing to say. And I’m not great at saying things in the best of circumstances. He doesn’t seem to mind my silence. Or maybe he just doesn’t notice.

**Baz**

Simon holds me. He doesn’t falsely reassure me, or apologize emptily. (What does it even fucking mean when people say oh, I’m so sorry about your mother? I fucking hate when people say that.) I’m grateful for his warmth and silence.

I haven’t done this in a long, long time. Cry. Like this. In loud gasping sobs that break open every time I think they’ve quieted. I haven’t held someone while I cried since I was five. I'm shocked to discover how good it feels to have someone to hold on to, as the sadness rips itself out of me through my nose, forcing its way out of the tiny corners of my eyes.

Eventually I'm just resting against Simon's chest, feeling his fingers in my hair. He wordlessly reaches up and hands me- a roll of paper towels? I burst out laughing. That kind of laughing that happens after you've been crying. The kind that inevitably turns into hiccups.

He smiles, unsure of how to accompany me in this transition between my emotions. He shrugs. It's really quite a versatile gesture. Invaluable for someone who can't trust himself to speak. I can see why he relies on it so much.

“Do I really look that soaked?” I hiccup incredulously. “Paper towels?”

“Ebb cries a lot,” he shrugs. “She doesn't believe in tissues.” He's still unsure about whether or not he should smile. Then he gives in and laughs, because it's pretty goddamn hilarious.

I pick the photo book back up from the floor beside me where Simon had placed it. I open it again. This time I know what I'll find. I'm prepared for the feelings. Now that the first, primal crush of memories has burned itself out, I'm curious to actually look at the photos themselves.

It's strange to see Fiona so young, open, free. I'm sure she was a sarcastic pain in the ass back then too. But it's obvious in the pictures how different she was, when the razor edge of herself was still buffered by hope. I glimpse my own future, starkly silhouetted against the images. I can see it, and I don't want it. I don't want to be left with nothing but blades and bones.

I slip my hand into Simon's and breathe. For the first time I can imagine that there's another route my fate can follow. With solid softness, with warm steel. With a layer between myself and the pain, one that creates space for peace.

I start pointing out the people and landmarks I know. I show them to Simon. I take him on a two-dimensional tour of the house I grew up in. It's strange to see my bedroom transformed by the running-backward energy of old pictures. I point out the gardens. Mum with her flowers. Mum with me. Mum with her flowers, holding me.

The pictures capture the erosion of their friendship. Pictures of daily life are replaced by pictures of holidays and special occasions. Their love remains intact. Happiness shines through, whenever something transpired that brought them both into the frame of the same lens for a frozen moment.

Then come the pages and pages and pages that testify to Ebb's grief after Mum was gone. The missing pages reflect an inner world being ripped apart. I know that feeling too well. I relive it every night.

We set the album beside us. Simon and I sit together in the floury, fragrant fortress that Ebb built in this cold city. Exhausted. But together. Despite the intensity of seeing those pictures, I feel good. It feels good to share it with him. It feels like a stayed execution. I get another chance. He's giving me another chance. I won't screw it up. I won't ever hurt him again.

I lean into him, gratefully absorbing his endless warmth.

**Simon**

Baz tells me about each of the pictures, as though introducing me to his family. It's sweet, and chastely intimate. When we get to the last few pages, he falls silent. I stay wrapped around him, and he leans into me, and we sit like that for a while. He seems ok. I wait for him to say something more. To explain it all. He doesn't say anything.

Finally, I ask. “What happened to her?” A tentative whisper.

He twists his neck to look at me in surprise. “She was killed during a break-in. In my bedroom. During the night. I assumed you knew.”

I shake my head, taken aback. I hold him tighter. I know it's the least of everything, but I can't stop myself from asking, “why? How could I have known?”

“Well, it's one of the first things that come up when you google me. It was written up a lot, because of. Well, because she was. I mean, our family. So. It was. It became a big story.”

He's leaving his sentences half spoken. It makes me feel close to him. I know what if feels like when that's what happens to the words. When they're lined up neatly in your head, but stumble all over each other on their journey through your mouth.

I know how rare it is, for words to elude him this way. And I suspect that I’m the only person he's ever let see him like this. More than anything else he's said and done today, this convinces me that he really means it. He really cares. He wants to try. I want to let him.

“Baz,” I say to him. “I've never googled you.” Not that I never thought about it. I did. But, that kind of thing. Surveillance, monitoring. It feels really twisted to me. It's a line I never want to cross.

**Baz**

I snort with disbelief and turn so we’re facing one another. “But you followed me around for a year! You got me thrown out of school.”

Simon blushes. “It's not the same thing at all!” He protests. I raise my eyebrow, but allow a small smile to play on my lips. I don't actually want to upset him. Not after we've finally reached some sort of peace again. Not ever, really.

“No? Pray tell. How do they differ?”

He laughs in relief at my tone. If possible, he blushes even deeper.

“Following you wasn’t. I mean. There's, like, there's a difference. Looking stuff up about someone, so you know things about them. I mean, just to know? Like, surveillance? That creeps me out.” He's struggling to find words, and I don't interrupt him. Which I count as a personal victory over my worse instincts.

I'm a little uncomfortable, though. Having done exactly that when I found out he was my roommate. To me, a Google search is patently less invasive than following someone around all the time. But I hold my tongue for once, and listen.

“Following you. It was. I was scared. I was. Worried? I thought you might. I mean, that you could've. You might get hurt or need help or something? I know it's stupid. Because what could I do about even if you did? But it was like, I had to know. I couldn't stand not knowing. If you were ok. I couldn't figure it out. What to do. I thought. I mean, it was stupid. Which I know now. I thought the dean would help. That she'd let me help, that I would be able to help. I was so furious. When she just. When she didn't. When it just. When you just. That wasn't what I thought would happen. Then you weren't there, and I didn't know where you were, or if you were ok, or if I'd made things worse instead of better. I just. And then this fall. This year. I was your. You were my. But you hated me so much. And I still didn't know. Like, if I couldn't see you, maybe something bad could be happening and I'd never know and I would never be able to live with not having done anything just because I didn't know. Fuck. I know this is all so stupid. I understand why you'd hate me, I guess, but I didn't want you to. To hate me. And I couldn't just ask you, because you hated me. And so.”

I still don’t get it. It makes no sense to me. But his face is so red and splotchy and his fingers are tearing through his hair and this isn't what I want at all. At all, at all. On the other hand, I can't tell him to stop talking. Again. Once a day is probably enough.

So I wrap my arms around him, and his voice quiets and his eyes close. I rub my nose experimentally against his and I smile when his head tilts and his lips open. I feel him relax against me. I can feel the heat receding from his face as his acute embarrassment fades. I can feel a different heat filling him.

Then he looks at me and asks, almost aggressively, “so, you're not mad anymore? You're ok with it?”

“Yes, Simon,” I say as lightly as I can. “You can be obsessed with me whenever the fancy strikes you.” He grins, just slightly. “So,” I add slyly, “now that you've caught me, what are you going to do about it?” His eyes gleam and the world fades as he proceeds to quite thoroughly answer the question.


	20. November 13, 4.5 years ago

_November 13_

Fall of senior year  
Four and a half years ago.

**Penny**

Something’s different about Simon today. Not good different. He's walking wrong. He's not paying attention to what's going on around him. He flinches when anyone gets too near, then tries to laugh it off with a grimace. He jokes self-deprecatingly about his clumsiness, telling some story about spraining something. I don't buy it. I worry more when I hear him saying he's going to sit out soccer practice today, and see him swallowing way too many Advil.

I don't know what's going on, but I know I don't like it. I call my mum.

**Simon**

Penny walks over to me after last period. I don't trust the look on her face. I start to brush her off. Which I feel a little bad about, but I can't handle it right now. I just. I can't. I'm not going to practice, either, which will make it a little more complex to shake her. She's tenacious to a fault.

Her voice cuts me off before I can even form the words to accompany my back as I turn away from her.

“Stop,” she calls. I wait, but I don't turn around. She sounds like she's working to keep her voice calm. “Simon. You don't have to talk about it. I’m not asking anything. But don't go back home tonight.”

I want to scream at her. Easy for her to fucking say. But I don't. It's not her fault. I wish she just understood. It's not like I want to go back there. I just know that every other option is worse. I've spent years discovering, one at a time, how much worse all the alternatives are.

I can't explain this to her. I start to walk away. Hopefully she'll forgive me. If not, well, that might be easier anyway. No more watching, no more questions, no more impossible plans.

“My mum already phoned up your dad.” I stop walking again. Penny’s never told her mom before. Whose son I am. Her mom hates my father. That's unusual for her demographic: a well-educated, high-income liberal in this state. It's one of the reasons I respect her so much. But Penny and I agreed years ago that it'll be better all around if we don't tell her. It's an easy secret to keep. I'm nothing like him. He's handsome, forceful. Charismatic. There's nothing of him in me.

“I told her, Simon. That he's your father. She called his office. She got through to him. She told him she'd forgotten to arrange it in advance, but …” Penny keeps talking, but I stop listening.

Everything hurts, and I'm having enough trouble figuring out how to deal with my life. I don’t have the energy to think about what she's saying or why she's saying it.

I need a strategy for how to deal with Davy's newest game. It's not really a game. He just straight-up beat the shit out of me last night. I can't figure out what it means. What's coming next. How to prepare.

It's outside our usual script. I'm more scared than I know how to deal with. And he knows. He knows I won't do anything about it. And he's right. I won't. By now, I know better. I've at least learned that much.

He never runs out of new ways to win.

I'm weirdly worried that Penny’s ruined something for me. That she's cheated me of the chance to finally get something right. 

My thoughts make me feel sick. Some part of me wants him to see he won. Because there's some twisted way in which that will make him proud. And for some twisted reason I want to make him proud.

I just. I want to be right for once. To be good for once.

Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck my fucking, fucked up life. Fuck Penny for knowing me too fucking well. For always being right. She always wins, too.

I stand still for a minute, letting the anger take me. Letting it flare around me, imagining it burning everything it touches.

“So, now it'll be weirder if you go home than if you don't,” she’s arguing. “You don't have to come with me now. You can come later. Or not come at all. Just, don't go home. I promise not to make you explain anything. I just don't want you going home. Ok? I'm walking away now. I hope I'll see you later.”

And she actually turns around. Walks away. My anger drains from me, pus from a rotting hole. I have nothing left. If I let myself hate Penny instead of him. Hate myself instead of him. Fuck him. Penny’s just giving me a way out. There's enough left of some version of me, of the person I try to be, for me to know it's better for me to go with her. Not go home. To know that I really, really don't want to go home.

I don't want to go to Penny’s house either. I want to fucking disappear. I want to close my eyes and crawl into a ball and cry. But. She promised not to ask. She promised I don't have to talk. I don't have to face her knowledge, my shame. I can hide out in her room and avoid everyone else. The Bunces are an independent brood. You can spend a week there without talking to anybody. And it's better than wandering around the streets by myself.

So I finally turn and follow her, wordless. She hears me, waits for me to catch up. She takes my hand and I let her. We walk quietly to her house, but it's an ok quiet. A quiet of not demanding anything. A quiet of knowing that's sometimes there's just nothing to say.

  

**Mitali**

Penny calls to say she's bringing Simon home with her. She's never told me much about him, and I don’t pry. Not because I'm the world's coolest mom. Mostly because I'm too busy to pry.

Being busy turns out to work pretty well when raising kids. I call it exhaustion parenting. When you just don't have the time to hover and overstep boundaries, your kids turn out independent. And they're not as likely to hate you for always being on their case about something. At least that's how it worked out with my kids. It helps that they're great kids. I trust them. I trust Penny.

So when she told me to call the governor and tell him some story as a pretext for Simon staying at our place instead of going home, I did it. But now I'm unable to concentrate on the manuscript I'm writing.

My mind keeps circling back to the troubling, impossible idea that Penny's best friend is Aster’s kid. And Aster is Davy. And Davy is someone I've worked hard to stay far away from.

Martin and I almost split up over moving here. I couldn't explain why an entire state should be off limits simply because I knew the governor. Or more accurately, because I once knew a girl who dated him. In another world, another life. The job was too good for him to turn down. And I'm not a superstitious neanderthal. But I don't like it.

I didn't want to call. I don't like the idea of having to be in his sphere of influence again. I don't mind lying to him, though, which makes it slightly more tolerable. And fundamentally, I trust Penny. And if she says this is important, I'll take her word for it.

**Simon**

I follow Penny upstairs. The silence grows awkward. It's not usually like this for us. It sucks. I start fidgeting. It hurts. I see Penny see me wince, and my eyes harden. If she can't keep her side of the bargain of silence, I'm not going to stay. She considers my face for a moment, and then hers softens.

“Need anything from downstairs? Food? Or, um… ice? Advil?”

I consider her words, and decide they're not a trap. I nod.

“Yeah, that would be good. Thanks, Pen.”

She shrugs, which makes me smile. She definitely got that from me.

“Is it ok if I shower?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. I haven't gotten a good look at any of the cuts or bruises that have started hurting more sharply over the course of the day. I want to see if there's anything at risk of getting infected. And I'd like to get clean. To wash the past 24 hours off my skin. I didn't want to risk showering at home last night, or this morning.

She nods. “Yeah, of course. Pick a bedroom, they all have bathrooms attached. None of my brothers live at home anymore. Feel free to scavenge around for clothes or pajamas or whatever. And,” she hesitates, then says in kind of a rush, “my mom put first aid kits in all our bathrooms, so we didn't need to come to her every time we did something stupid.” She stops talking, looking alarmed, and then starts talking even more quickly. “Not that I'm saying you did something stupid. That you did anything. You didn't. I…”

I cut her off before she can say anything else. “Thanks Pen. I got it.”

She nods unhappily but leaves the room. I listen for her footsteps heading down the stairs, then go to one of her brothers’ rooms at random.

A bed you sleep in every night. A door that locks. A safe bathroom. I wonder what life would be like with those luxuries. One day, I promise myself. One day, this will be my life. Meanwhile, I'll pretend.

I lock the door. I stand in the quiet, peaceful, sunny room. I close my eyes. I pretend that this is my room, my life. I open my eyes and walk towards the bathroom. I catch my reflection in a mirror.

Oh. I understand Penny a little more. I didn’t know I looked this bad. I don’t think I did look this bad, this morning. He didn’t touch my face, and the rest of me is covered up. But I can see now that face is still too pale, my jaw is clenched, my eyes are ringed with dark exhaustion. There’s dried blood along the seam of my shirt. A bit of purplish green skin peeks out from under the collar. I shift my shirt to cover it, even though I'm the only one here. Even though I'm about to take the shirt off, and everything else. Not in this room, though. Not with only one locked door between me and the dangerous intelligence of my best friend.

I take off my clothes behind the second locked door of the bathroom. I try not to look at myself now, but I can't totally avoid it. I shower, washing off the blood, trying not to look at the torn flesh underneath. I don't remember most of what happened, and I don't really understand how I ended up looking like this. I don't want to know. So I focus on the hot water. The luxury of leaving it running as long as I want. Knowing no one is monitoring me.

I try the three shampoos, two soaps, and five types of hair gel. This must be Premal’s room, then. Penny always complains about how obsessed he is with his hair. For once, I'm glad her brother’s such a prick. It's strangely fun to sample everything, to draw out this shower as if it never has to end. As if I never have to go back outside, unlocking the doors, standing open to view and judgment.

When I finally turn off the water, I realize I have a problem. Besides the ones I already knew about, I mean. I'm wet, with no way to get dry. Not because there are no towels. There are three of them, in fact. All neatly folded. Every one of them a pale cream color. A lovely color that would ruthlessly betray every last one of my bloody secrets. On top of which, I can't lift my arms high enough to reach the first aid kit without pain shooting through my ribs, leaving me gasping and empty handed.

Everything hurts. My body burns, with shame and anger and raised welts and warmly crusting blood. And with burns, two of them. One on my chest, one on my leg. Jesus. I'm glad I don't remember much of last night.

The hot water was good for feeling clean, but it makes the burns hurt like a motherfucker. I can't do anything else anyway, so I fill the tub with icy water and slowly lower myself into it until my body feels as blank as my mind. I finally give in to the crushing numbness. I let myself cry. It fucking hurts. I hold myself still and welcome the cold. I let my head slip below the water, and keep it there for a thrilling second. The impulse terrifies me, and I push myself back up. I close my eyes. At some point I'll gather the courage to leave this blank refuge. But for now, I just sit and practice being nothing.

 


	21. New Year's Eve (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz go to Agatha’s New Year's Eve party. Simon's excited, Baz is grumpy, and they're both wearing suits. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the genius of suit-centric snowbaz (snowsuit?) [Visinata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata), author of [ For the Love of Merlin, Put On a Suit! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5805268) and [ If Music be the Food of Love. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5896324/chapters/13591825)(Among others, but those are the two with suits!)

**Baz**

Simon is making me wait in the common room while he gets dressed for Agatha's New Year's Eve party. Even though I made it perfectly clear that I would probably be a grumpy asshole for the rest of the evening if I'm locked out of my own room. He said I'm always a grumpy ass and closed the door on me.

This is why you should never, ever date your roommate. That, plus the problem that if you break up, you're still stuck living together for another six months. Being forced to be with someone is a good recipe for not wanting to be with them anymore.

Luckily for us, we're still into each other. (Granted, it's only been a week. But it's been a pretty intense week of nothing but each other.)(Yes, and fine, I'll admit that my case, ‘into’ is a euphemism for insanely in love with. But I don’t want to presume about Simon's feelings. Fantasize, yes. Presume, no. A good rule of thumb.)

I hadn't really thought through what the consequences of kissing Simon could be. Or the consequences of everything that came after. I couldn't worry about what would happen if things didn’t work out between us. I was too busy being amazed that there were “things” between us to begin with.

Simon walks out of the room, and my irritation at being made to wait here like some gentlemen caller from a nineteenth century novel evaporates. He's stunning in a grey suit. It looks like it was made for him. Or like he was made for it. I have no idea where he gets his clothes. We really are an unreasonably attractive couple. He looks nervous. Like he's worried about what I'll think of how he looks. It's kind of flattering and irresistibly adorable.

Fuck consequences. I walk over to Simon and grab him by the lapels of his absurdly sexy suit jacket and kiss the questions off his face. I run my tongue along his lips and they open to let me in. I hold his face in my hands, my fingers in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, my thumbs stroking along his jaw. I move my mouth softly, moving Simon's with it, kissing him from every angle I can. It takes him a nanosecond to process that I'm not grumpy anymore, and then he smiles and kisses me back hungrily. He runs his hand along my leg and up to my hips. “Nice suit,” he mumbles between kisses. All I can manage to say is “mmmm.”

 

 

**Simon**

Baz has a thing for suits. I discovered this when we moved in together (those words sound so different now) but I didn't enjoy it until more recently. First, I thought it was yet another imperious affectation. Then I was tormented by how fucking sexy he looked in a suit. Now I feel nothing but affection for his affectations, and his sexiness has become a plus instead of a minus. So when Agatha told me that this year's New Year's Eve party would be a suit-and-tie affair, I was thrilled.

I wasn't totally sure I was going to even be invited to the party this year. She laughed at me when I admitted it, and said something odd like, “no matter how much I may sometimes hate you, I'll always love you.” I don't have a fucking clue what that actually means. But I'm excited to go to the party. I love parties. Especially Agatha’s. And this is the first time Baz and I are going somewhere as a couple.

I was relieved that he agreed to go with me. I'm still not sure what is going to happen when the holiday truce expires. I hope he'll still like me. But I want to go out somewhere with him while he's still like this. With me I mean. While he's still like this with me. Before I turn back into a pumpkin. I want him to be willing to be seen with me in front of other people. I want to show off that he's chosen me, before he unchooses me.

And maybe I also want to test whether he's willing to let our friends see us together. I guess it's still hard for me to be sure this isn't just a very elaborate plan to humiliate me. Which is totally unfair, I know. But I'm not planning to tell him. So it's ok. And if he goes back to hating me, I guess that'll be ok too. Even though right now it doesn't feel ok. I know it'll be ok. I know I'll lose him eventually. I always do. So I'm determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

I'm almost done getting dressed. Baz was really irritated when I told him he had to wait outside while I got ready. But how am I supposed to impress him if he watches me struggle with every button and fumble with a tie for twenty minutes? I want him to see the end product, not the process.

I look at myself in the mirror. I wasn't sure about the grey at first. It seems like a boring color. Not that I had many options. Beggars and choosers and all that. But it worked out ok. The PAL never lets me down. I look good in grey. I think. Regardless, I have to open the door at some point. Might as well be now. I hope he's impressed. I'm vain, I know.

I kind of miss Baz’s reaction to how I look because I'm so distracted by how he looks. He insisted that if I were going to dress in secret, so was he. I didn't think it mattered. I've already seen him in a suit a million times. But I was wrong. It mattered. He takes my breath away.

He's wearing a color that only he could get away with. It's a dark green, almost black. If I tried wearing that, I'd look like a gangster. But he looks regal. That's the only word for it. My fucking knees go weak. Is that ever going to stop? And now I've totally missed whether or not he likes my suit. There's only about a millisecond when you can see his feelings in his eyes before he wipes them clear. And I wasted the whole millisecond admiring him. I guess wasted isn't necessarily the right word.

But then, he breaks character. He crosses the room too quickly for me to really see and takes me in his arms and kisses me so intensely that I feel like maybe we've never really kissed before.

I guess he likes the suit.

 

 

**Agatha**

I told Simon to come about an hour earlier than everyone else. Partly because he's unpredictable in terms of time. Some of which is my fault. I drilled it into him that the proper time to arrive at a party is at least an hour after it's been called for, but no more than two and a half.

But also because I want to give him time to react. I'm going to introduce him to my girlfriend. And it would be fair if he finds that a little hard to process.

I told him to bring a date, but I don't think he's actually seeing anyone. Though who knows. A week in college is like six months in the real world as far as relationships go. I can't believe we dated for almost two years. Breaking up was like getting divorced.

The party officially starts in about 15 minutes. Though hopefully anyone planning to come to one of my parties will have the decency to be an hour late. I'm just hoping Simon doesn't go for the two hour mark.

And I'm in luck. The doorbell rings. And there's Simon, and he's brought… Baz?! And they're holding hands. Interesting. I guess this won't be quite so awkward after all.

“Ok, doll, they're here!” I call out, knowing it'll annoy her. Why I want to annoy her is less clear. She just is so cute when she scowls. Sure enough, she walks out looking annoyed. (Not scowling, though. Rolling her eyes. Still cute.)

“I swear to god, Aggie, if you call me that one more time I'm going to…” And then she stops when she sees the boys. I make the introductions.

“Penny, meet Simon and Basilton. Simon, Baz, meet my girlfriend, Penny.”

I see Simon's face go pale and his eyes go wide. Seriously. How can he possibly act all pissy after bringing Basilton fucking Pitch to my party?

Then I hear Penny make a strange noise, half sob and half laugh. And she's running to Simon, who's still standing there looking like he's just seen a ghost. Baz looks as confused as I am, which is some comfort. So he and I do what we do best. Stand back looking beautiful and bored, while watching everything around us with undiluted attention.

 

 

**Penny**

Oh my god. I can't believe it's really him. It's Simon. I've been looking for him for so long now. I hadn't given up, but I'd lost any hope of finding him easily. I'd checked every name on our list, and every school I knew he’d applied to. With no luck. I transferred from UCL to UCLA last year, and canvassed the west coast. I just transferred to Columbia a couple of weeks ago. In part because of Aggie. But mostly because I was ready to start making my way through the east coast. I’d already resigned myself to moving to Chicago next fall if I hadn't found him yet.

But here he is. And he looks amazing. Or he did, until he saw me. I’d already started running towards him before my brain processed the fact that his face went grey as soon as his eyes met mine. My heart stutters as my arms wrap around him and he stands there, frozen, not hugging me back.

Things had gotten bad between us by the time we graduated. I had hoped it wouldn't matter anymore when I finally found him. But I knew he might still be angry with me.

He was upset and hurt when he realized I was actually ready to lose him. He went through every step of my plan faithfully. But with each step he distanced himself from me, so it wouldn't hurt as much. I know he felt like I was getting rid of him. It killed me. Seeing him crumpling under the belief that I was abandoning him after he'd finally decided to trust me.

I told him, over and over again. I wasn't leaving him, I was going to find him. It wasn't forever. I would find him. I love him. He's my best friend. He’ll always be my best friend. There was even a month when I thought shit, maybe he doesn't want to be best friends, maybe he likes me likes me? Which made me feel vaguely ill. It would like Premal telling me he wanted to kiss me.

Luckily I'm a big believer in direct questions, so when I finally just asked him he looked confused and then nauseated and said something like, “eew, no. What the fuck, Penny?” And I was so relieved that I started laughing. Which quickly convinced him that I wasn't asking because I wanted him to like me like that. I explained that I was just worried that maybe that was why he seemed so angry with me.

He told me that he was angry because I was hurting him and I didn't have to. That it wasn't worth it to him. He'd rather stay here and deal with his father. I briefly considered lying to him, pretending I didn't care about him any more, to drive him away, so he would leave. But only briefly. I'm not a complete asshole. Or a good liar. And it was a stupid plan, too. Too many ways it could go wrong. I don't do stupid plans. Or cruelty.

So I was left with trying over and over again to explain, to promise. Sometimes he believed me, sometimes he didn't.

He told me there had to be another solution. He told me this solution was worse than the problem. But then he admitted that that probably wasn't true. I told him my truth. I couldn't deal with it if he stayed. If I knew what was going on and had to pretend I didn't. That we would truly lose each other if that happened. If that's what kept happening, year after year, with no end in sight. This way, we could truly be in each other's lives, both free. Even if it took years. There was no other way for it to work. There was no other choice than for him to leave. For us to lose each other now. It was easier for me, because I knew I was going to find him again when it was safe, no matter how long it took.

And I did. And I'm more sure than ever that making him run was the right thing to do. He's transformed. His eyes are (or were, two minutes ago) bright and dancing. He's holding hands with a gorgeous guy who's looking at him like he hung the bloody moon.

I can't believe I found him. I can't stand the idea that he might hate me. I love him more than I ever did. I think about him every day. I carry his picture around in my wallet. I talk to him sometimes. To his picture. I tell him I hope he's happy wherever he is. I ask him to forgive me. I promise I won't stop looking until I find him. I tell him what's going on in my life. About moving back to London for uni. About Micah. Then about breaking up with Micah. Then about Agatha. Agatha. I can't believe Agatha's Simon was my Simon. That is so bizarre that I can't stop the words from escaping my mouth.

“Simon. Aggie. Agatha, your Simon was my Simon. Simon Aster. You never told me it was Simon Aster. It was something else. Simon Something-else. Of course. Because you changed it. I can’t believe it. All this time. I've been looking for you. Simon.” I'm babbling, borderline incoherent. Everyone else is totally silent. I finally manage to stop talking.

I realize my mistake as soon as I see the look of shock on Aggie’s face, and the look of hurt and betrayal that descends on Baz’s. Simon never told them. Fuck. I assumed he had. Of course he didn't. They've both taken a step away from him (unconsciously? I hope). Simon looks plaintively at Baz, who let go of his hand when I pulled him in to hug him. Baz's face is impassive.

“Snow,” Simon says quietly, to no one in particular. “I'm Simon Snow.” Then he extricates himself from my embrace and turns and leaves without another word.

 

 

**Baz**

I don't understand what I’m hearing. Except that I do. He's lied to me, all this time. There is no Simon Snow.

He leaves and I know I'll follow him. But not yet. I need to understand this. I need to calm down before I find him. What the fuck am I supposed to do with the fact that this whole time I’ve never actually even known Simon’s fucking name? No wonder he prefers Simon. Snow isn’t even his actual fucking name. (Yes, ok. Maybe he also prefers his first name. And maybe I am being kind of mean when I call him Snow. But still.) Simon Aster. Who the fuck is Simon Aster? Who is Simon Snow? What else don’t I know?

I regain my external composure immediately. It's a fucking reflex at this point. Agatha too. Interesting that we're the only two people Simon's ever dated. She and I had a whole thing in high school. I haven't told him about it yet. Which reminds me of the things he hasn't told me. Like his name. Not that I've actually forgotten.

Agatha's girlfriend (Peggy? Polly?) looks distraught. I swallow my questions and look at Agatha. It's her place, her girlfriend. She should ask the questions. But she doesn't. She's always been a bit of a coward. I wonder how long their relationship will last. Not my problem.

“Well, that was unexpected,” I say lightly. [Rule #3: Hold back, scan the terrain, and then attack if necessary.]

I take a step closer to her and lower my voice an octave. “Perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain what the fuck just happened?” [Rule #6: Mix vulgarity with extreme politeness to unbalance your opponent. Which brings us to rule #1: Everyone is your opponent, until they prove that they're not.]

Agatha huffs at me as I glower at her girlfriend, but I wave her away easily. She had her chance. Now the floor is mine. And I want answers.

“Fuck off, asshole,” the girl spits at me. (Pammy? Penny? That's it, I think. Penny.) “what the fuck kind of a shit boyfriend are you? Go help Simon!”

Hmm. Interesting. I'm impressed despite myself. But I'm not that easily put off.

“Capital idea, darling. But hardly possible for me to help him recover from whatever bomb you just detonated without knowing anything about it.” [Rule #2: turn things around on your opponent. Accuse them if they accuse you.]

“Your pompous demeaning bullshit isn't going to impress me, asshole, no matter how posh you make your accent. Go help Simon, or I'll go myself.”

I think I rather like Penny. It's rare to have made this much antagonistic progress in just two volleys. I decide to trust her. Plus, she's right. I don't want to waste more time than necessary. And judging by everything that just happened, I'll be of more help to Simon than she would. Which she's basically just admitted.

[Corollary of rule 1: once you've determined that someone is not your opponent, waste no more energy testing them. Get what you need from them and move on.]

[No, there are no rules that aren't about taking what you want. Everyone is either an opponent or a resource. There are no other options. That's not even a rule. It's an axiom.]

“Actually, Penny, I agree with you,” I say in a normal tone of voice. “So tell me what I need to know to help him.”

She's not thrown off by my change in tone, but she does respond to it. “Short version,” she compromises. I nod, but she's already talking. “I was Simon's best friend in high school. He was in a bad situation. I helped him hide. We haven't seen each other since. I've been looking for him for a long time. Now go make sure he's ok. And take my cell number. Text me if you can't handle it. Text me if he needs me. Actually, text me regardless of what happens.”

I take her number and go, not wasting a single extra breath on goodbyes. I've gotten what I need from her. For now.

 

 

**Simon**

Snow. Snow. Snow, snow, snow, snow. It’s my name. It's a chant in my head. It crunches under my boots. It's the path I leave in my wake. My hand fidgets with the worn edge of the rectangle in my pocket. It's gotten softer over time. Penny's picture. I always have it with me. I don't know why any more. At first it gave me hope. Then it made me sad. Then it made me angry. Now it's just there.

I close my eyes and stumble as a wave of pain crashes over me. I stand still. I try to breathe. I clench my fists. I dig my nails into my skin hard enough to leave marks. My breath shudders and I keep walking, not trying to tame it, as wave after wave after black fucking wave crashes over me. I'm drowning. I can't breathe. But it's not real. None of it is real. I try to remind myself even though I know it won't matter. My mind is just as disinterested in reality as everyone else’s.

I read about it in one of the books Penny forced on me that last year of high school. About trauma and dissociation and memory fragmentation. About body memories that hide as feelings in the present, but are really memories of the past. I know all about it. I know that's what the hunger-terror is. I know that's what this is. The drowning, not being able to breathe. But it doesn't make a fuck of difference. That's what I tried to explain to Penny, eons ago. Knowing doesn't change the experience at all. It doesn't prevent it either. So what the fuck good is it to me?

She always added “yet.” “It doesn't matter yet,” she would say. “But it will. It will help.” She was wrong. I thought she couldn't be wrong. But I was wrong. And that part was no surprise.

I imagine her voice, like I always do. Saying yet just hasn't happened yet. But if yet ever decides to show up, I’m just going to beat the shit out it. Where was yet when I fucking needed it?

I crumble. Where was Penny? When I needed her?

She never believed me. That the books didn't matter. That escaping didn't matter. That all that mattered was holding on to the little bit of good in my life. If I had even a little good that was mine, I’d be ok. If there was something good I couldn't lose. That wouldn't leave me. If I had just a little good, I would be ok. I would make it work. It would be ok.

And she was it. She was the best thing in my life. All I needed was her. But she was saying I couldn’t have her in my life anymore.

I didn't know then, and I still don't now. What Penny was thinking. I wanted so badly to believe her. To believe she was trying to help me, not hurt me. That she thought I could get someplace else, better, safer. Without her. That she wasn't trying to save herself from the burden of me. That she wasn't just trying to get as far away as possible from the toxic waste of my life. Once she found out all about it.

She told me. She told me she knew. She told me over and over until I broke. Until I couldn't say no anymore, I couldn't pretend any more. I told her she was right. Things were shitty and scary at home, and always had been. And then she told me to run.

I'm bent over from the pain cutting through the center of me. I lean on a wall until I can stand again. I let my feet move without direction.

I did everything she told me to. Like I always fucking do. I do everything everyone tells me to do. And never once has it worked. I've never been able to keep anything, to save anything.

I did what she said. And more. I changed my name to one that wasn't on her list. And I moved to a city that wasn't on our list. And I didn't look back. She promised she’d find me when it was safe. But she never came. I never saw her again. At first I thought, maybe she just doesn't know where I am. She's not a fucking magician. She can't just look into her crystal ball and see where I went.

When my photo ran in the paper with that article, and my father figured out where I was, I thought, maybe. Maybe she would too. And maybe she did. She probably did. If he knew, she'd know. She's infinitely smarter than he is.

So she didn't come because she wasn't coming. Of course she wasn't. It had been years. I was an idiot for imagining she still thought about me. Maybe she had meant all of it at first. I try really hard to believe that's possible. That she meant the things she said to me. That she meant them at first, and just forgot about them after. But I know it's far more likely she never meant any of them to begin with.

And now she reappears. With Agatha. And the first thing she does is destroy my relationship with Baz. Baz. He will never forgive me for lying to him. I wouldn't either. Especially after he'd trusted me with his own secrets. Christmas. Paddington. Ebb. Natasha. Fiona. Each word hammers me until I am curled up against the ground.

But it's not the ground, is it? It's the roof. My feet have led me to the top of the library. It's peaceful up here. No one ever comes here. Almost no one knows about it. I work in the stacks, so I know the secret staircases and passageways and doors that lead to unexpected places. Places no one else goes. Where no one can find me. I used to come here a lot, when I needed a place to fall apart and cry my first couple of years here. I haven't needed it for a while. But I do now.

So I surrender to the pain and collapse in a ball. I want to disappear, but I can't. I'm out of practice. All I can think about is Baz’s face. The hurt, the disgust. I can practically hear his voice. As if we’re having a conversation. As if instead of leaving, I'd tried talking to him.

I know just what he'd say. I can hear it as clearly as if he were standing next to me. He'd turn it around on me. He'd ask, in the low, vicious voice he hasn't used on me in so long, “what exactly do you want me to say, Simon? If that is even your name. Shall I ask you how your evening is going? Would you like to chat about the weather? Should I ask how you could fuck someone for a week without ever telling them your fucking name?”

In my mind, I try to placate him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what my name used to be. But you do know my name. My name now. That’s the name that matters.”

Even in my own fantasy, there's no way it works. I have no excuse. His phantom voice rings in my head.

“Fuck off, Simon. That’s not how it works. You don’t get to lie about your name. You don't get to hide behind a pretend name when everyone else has to face their own fucking reality. Did it help anything? Lying? Did it make it so the bad couldn't touch you? Who the fuck do you think you are, changing your name? Who does that? Like you're important, like you matter, like you’ve earned some magical immunity from your own past. Your own mistakes.”

And he's right. I know he's right. I have nothing to say. Even in my own mind, even in my own defense.

It doesn't matter anyway. It was just a matter of time before I lost him. It's like I’m coated in something dark. Something cold and hard and smooth. Everything good slips off and away from me. I was bound to lose him. It just happened sooner than I'd hoped. But it's the same, in the end.

I wonder where I'll live. I can't go back to our room. Going back to him hating me will be like putting back on a filthy set of clothes after finally getting clean. It will be like being homeless, living in the same increasingly dirty clothes for days on end, then finally finding your way home but having to put the same clothes back on anyway. I can't face it.

Not that that matters, either, really. It's just a matter of time before I have to find a new place to live. Just a few months until I graduate. And I have no plans for what happens after. It's weirdly like the past four years never happened. I'm back in school, about to graduate, and more alone than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Penny being Agatha's girlfriend will seem absurd, in the current narrative order of this fic. By which I mean, too much of a coincidence to support even the most generous suspension of belief. In the original version, there are chapters that follow Lucy and Natasha as they interfere from behind the veil. Basically, Lucy uses Agatha to bring all the players together, so that the three children of the three friends finally bring down Davy. Then, a few months after initially finishing this whole fic, I carved off those chapters and put them into separate works in this series, bc interpersing the ghost world with the reality-compliant world of the living was too distracting for the reader. So feel free to read those related works at your leisure, or skip them entirely.


	22. New Year's Eve (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon doesn't want to be found. Baz finds him anyway.

**Baz**

Fortunately, my Hero of Tomorrow is a bit of a klutz, and it's easy for me to follow his trail. It meanders a little but eventually ends at the south end of campus, at the steps of the main library. Which is weird. The library is closed, except for a little café that's sort of part of it. But there's no path leading away, so he must have gone in here. I start to panic a little. I don't have time to play hide and seek.

Panicking is absurd. I'm better than this. I do not panic. I act. I am going to pull myself the fuck together and think.

The important question, I realize, is whether or not Simon wants to be found. Where I focus my search for him has to depend on which one it is. I'm hoping he wants me to find him. I should start with that. Café, then. There's a million things that could have obscured his footprints.

But I stop myself. This is not about me. It's not about what I want. And if there's one thing I've learned about Simon, it's that he doesn't lie or exaggerate for attention. If he left without a word to me, he intended to leave. Well, one word. Snow.

And isn't that just the fucking problem. If he's actually hiding, then he doesn't want to be found. Which changes the game.

That isn't going to stop me from finding him. I don't know exactly how he feels but I probably understand it better than most. The power of secrets. The terror of being found out. The desire to disappear at any cost. Rehab helped. Therapy helped. And weirdly, it was Simon of all people who found me, even though I didn't want to be found. Brave, impossible, selfless, obsessive Simon. He found me then, and I'm going to find him now.

Easier said than done. Fortunately for us all, I'm unusually clever. And my mother used to run this place. And my aunt used to be a fan of making trouble. I've heard dozens of stories about Fiona's escapades while visiting Mum when she was younger. And only one of those stories starts at these locked doors and ends up outside.

He’ll be outside. If there's one thing I can be sure of here, it's that.

I walk to the stairs and around the corner and locate the side door I've only ever heard about from my aunt. When she was drunk. Feeling foolish, I pull the handle towards myself, then slip a credit card into the door jamb while rattling the handle quickly back and forth. To my surprise, it works. I make a mental note to send Fiona a bottle of scotch as a thank-you. Then I head to the maze of hallways behind the stacks, and make my way up to the roof.

 

 

**Simon**

I fall asleep at some point. I have one of those vivid dreams that come when your body and your mind can't properly detach.

I'm lying in the snow in a ditch. It's cold. It's so cold. And the air is all wrong. It's empty. Scratchy. Like a vacuum, like there is no air. Everything hurts. I can't understand what I've done wrong but it's something bad. Something really, deeply, dreadfully bad.

Baz. Baz told me to run. Told me I did this. Whatever it was. I made the air disappear. I should stay in this ditch. I should let myself die. But I don't. Penny will help me. I can't stand, I can't walk. I grow wings, I fly off. I go to Penny's house and she takes me in but then we both discover my wings are bat wings, demon wings. And I have a tail. Baz was right. I'm evil. Penny is looking at me warily and then there's a knock on the door and it's Baz. He doesn't look at me for more than a second. But I know he's seen them. My wings, my tail, my guilt.

He and Penny start talking excitedly. They're both so smart and they know exactly what I've done. I still don't know but they know. They diagram it with pushpins and index cards. Marking dates and cities and boundaries, drawing the map of all my failings. Talking excitedly about their discovery, as though it wasn't the end of my life. I have to go. I have to go to my father so he can end what he started. So he can finally kill me like he always promised.

But when I fly there, when I find him with a knife at the altar, he's killed Ebb instead. He got it wrong, he killed Ebb, I killed Ebb, Ebb died because of me, instead of me. And my father's hands are covered in blood and he's saying to me, almost sadly, you were supposed to be the hero. You were the Hero of Tomorrow. But you're not. You're nothing. You're nothing. And he steps towards me, knife ready.

But then a hole opens in the floor and Baz is here, he's flying up through the opening in the floor even though he has no wings. And Penny's there too, he's brought Penny but her eyes are closed. And then they open and she looks at me and says, like she used to, use your words, Simon. Say what you want. So I think. I don't want to leave. I don't want to hide. I don't want to die. I don't want to lose Penny. Or Baz.

I don't want to lose Davy. I still love him. It's my deepest shame. I've always loved him, even though he hates me so much. So I say what I really want. I say it it out loud, clearly. Stop hurting me. My words hit him hard and he falls down. Dead. Like those are his only options. Live and hurt me, or stop and die. All this time he's had no choice but to hurt me. Or he'd die. He had no choice. It's my fault. And now I've killed him. I'm sick. I killed him. I am evil. I kill everyone. And I collapse, wanting to join Ebb and Davy, but then Baz is next to me. He's holding my shoulder. He's pulling me to him, he's wrapping his long arms around me and whispering it's over now, love. It's ok now. You're ok now love. It's over.

 

**Baz**

I get to the the top of the stairs and open the door. There isn't anything keeping it open, which probably means Simon isn't here. Several of Fiona's stories involved the hilarity of friends being trapped on the roof because they were all too drunk to remember to prop the door open. Surely Simon would know about that. But I'm here, I might as well look.

I see him immediately when I get outside. He's a dark grey heap against a sea of white. The whole thing freaks me out. Was he planning to just stay outside? Was he totally out of it? Maybe he never planned to come back in. He definitely wasn't drunk.

I walk over quickly and see that he's fallen asleep all curled in on himself. On the ground, in the snow. What the fuck? How could he possibly be asleep? It's freezing, he's soaking wet, and it's only 9 pm. And it's New Year's Eve.

I thought I'd find him here sulking or brooding, not sleeping. I remind myself for the nth time not to underestimate what's going on behind that beautiful face. Poor Simon. I'm furious with Penny, even though I know that none of this is her fault. I need to turn my anger towards someone. Agatha too. She didn't even say a word, just stood by watching.

I crouch next to him and stroke his back and try to wake him gently. I don't even know what I'm saying, just a string of meaningless soothing words. It's over now, love. It's ok now. You're ok now, love. It's over. I'm here.

He slowly wakes up, and looks unsurprised to find me there. Until he really wakes up and kind of startles, pulling away. I tug at him softly until he's sitting, and then pull him against me. He's shivering. I run my hands along his arms and try to wrap my coat around both of us as I keep saying the words I've been repeating. It feels like I've been saying them for days, for seconds, forever. In some suspended version of time. It's ok, Simon. It's ok, love. It's over. I'm here. It's ok.

He looks at me as if trying to figure out if I'm real, and I wonder what he'd been dreaming. I wonder what he's seeing now.

“Baz?” he asks. “Baz? What. What are you doing here?”

It strikes me as an odd question. Doesn't he remember what just happened?

“We were at Agatha’s. We… met Penny. You got upset and came here. That's why I'm here.”

He's shaking his head. “Yeah. No. I mean, I know that. Obviously. What happened. But. You. You were so angry at me. Because. Because I. Because. My. Because I didn't.”

“Simon,” I say gently. “I wasn't angry with you. I was just… surprised.”

“No.” He shakes his head, stubbornly. “You were. I saw your face.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. His chin juts out. I smile. “Don't be ridiculous Simon. My face is incapable of displaying any emotion.” He smiles, but it fades quickly.

“I left,” he says. “You stayed. Not that I'm mad. I'm not mad that you're mad. I'd be mad. If I were you, I mean, not me. I. You never. My. My name. I didn't. So. So you. And anyway. You always hated me.”

His face is blotchy and his eyes are puffy and it is not fair that he can still be so fucking beautiful. So beautiful that it hurts. And he's right. He left. I stayed. And he came here and collapsed believing that I hated him. That I stayed behind, hating him. I can't stand it. I should have followed him immediately. Penny is right. I'm a shit boyfriend.

I don't realize that I haven't responded, even to deny that I hate him. That I ever hated him. Until he says, in a blank voice totally unlike his own,

“It's ok Baz. You don't have to sit here. I'm not going back to the room, you can have it. It was only going to be a couple of weeks anyway.”

“Simon,” I say, still two conversations behind. “I never hated you. I always loved you. It was killing me. Wait, what?” I ask, slowly processing his last few sentences. The cold must be messing with my brain. Or maybe his words just made so little sense that my mind rejected them. “What are you talking about? Not coming home? What was only going to be a couple of weeks?”

He looks at me, face kind of blank. Distant, bored. Protected. Is that what I usually look like? It's awful.

“The truce,” he answers calmly. Coldly. “It was only a couple more weeks anyway.”

It takes me five seconds too long to figure out what he's talking about. The truce I suggested. That led to ice skating which led to dinner which led to this. Us. Together. What does it have to do with anything that's going on now? Why would…

Oh. Now I get it. And now I am a little angry, but I can control it. I'm hurt. But I've been on his side of this conversation enough times to know that's what he's trying to do. Hurt me so I'll leave and he'll prove to himself that he was about me right all along.

I understand part of it. But there's also something at work here that I don't understand. That I deeply, fundamentally don't understand. And I'm not going to figure it out in the next five minutes. So I stick with the things I know.

“Simon,” I finally say. “This isn't a game to me. I'm not following some weird set of rules. This isn't a temporary truce anymore. I mean, fuck, you have to know that, right? It's not going to end in two weeks and revert back to what things were before. I care. I care about you. Fuck that. I love you. I love you Simon, I'm in love with you, I have been in love with you for a long, long time. And I don’t have any idea what's going on right now. But it's ok. It's going to be ok. I love you. It's going to be ok. And you're not getting rid of me without a fight. And you're certainly not getting rid of me tonight. And it's going to be ok.”

He shakes his head at me slightly, like he can't believe what an idiot I am. Then he throws his arms around my neck and rests his face in my chest and cries. Sobs. Loud, wrenching, terrible sounds. And weirdly it feels like a gift. To be trusted when he doesn't trust anything. Like he's given himself to me. I hold him and run my hands across his shoulders, down his back, though his hair. Calming him and claiming him. Until he's done. He stays resting against me, his eyes down. Suddenly he tenses.

“Baz,” he says, distressed. I brace myself. “Baz, your suit! It's ruined!”

That was not what I was expecting. I mean, it's certainly true. My suit is wet and filthy from sitting on the roof beside him. But obviously I don't give a shit about my suit. I get snapped out of comforting mode by the sheer sweet stupidity of it. I start laughing.

“Yes, Simon. Excellent point. I have muddied my clothes. You seem to spend an inordinate amount of time covered in slush and mud, so I thought I'd try it out for myself. And it was my poor, innocent suit that had to pay for my selfish indiscretion. My suit is definitely the victim here. This is a tragic catastrophe for my poor suit.” I can't stop laughing. It's the anxiety, I know. And it's a sad kind of laugh. And a little hysterical. But I can't control it.

He's not laughing but he is smiling a little. I calm down and pull him against me tightly. I'm never letting go. But we should go, together. His lips are turning blue and it really is shockingly uncomfortable to sit with my ass and my balls in a pool of icy slush.

“Let's get these suits home, Simon,” I say gently. “Our poor suits have had a rough night. Let's get them home so they can start the new year dry and warm, together.”


	23. New Year's Eve (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon make it home. Now they have to make it through the rest of eternity. Maybe they can just start with making it through the rest of the year. Three hours. They can do it.

**Baz**

By the time I get Simon home, he's shaking badly. I drag him into the bathroom and peel off his half frozen clothes while I let the water in the shower get hot. I'm worried about whether he'll make it on his own, but he wakes up a little when the water hits him. I go grab some towels before divesting myself of my own water-logged suit and getting into the shower. (Not his, alas. I've certainly fantasized about showering with Simon, but not like this.)

When I get back, Simon's sitting on the couch and looking a lot calmer. He’s wearing nondescript sweatpants and his habitual school sweatshirt, and it makes me smile just to see him. I pull on jeans and a sweater (I do not own a single garment made of fleece) (cotton fleece, that is)(I do own a pair of fleece lined boots, but the traditional kind)(made of dead animals) and settle myself next to him on the couch. I put my hand on his knee tentatively.

“You ok?” I ask, and immediately wince at the idiotic question. Of course he's not fucking ok. But I don't actually have any idea what's going on, and I don't know what's safe to ask. What's safe to say.

It's a little awkward. As things tend to get when you are brought by your new boyfriend (and former enemy) to a New Year's Eve party thrown by his ex-girlfriend who is (unbeknownst to him) your sort-of-ex-girlfriend too. Especially when you then meet your (sort-of shared) ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend who turns out to be the ghost of a traumatic secret past your new boyfriend thought was long buried. For example. Real life is like that. You can't make this shit up.

Simon just shrugs. Which is really more of a response than the question merited. I try again.

“I'm sorry, Simon,” I say truthfully. “I shouldn't have let you leave without me. I should've followed you. Penny said I was being a shit boyfriend. And…”

“But,” he says, interrupting me. He’s shifted away from me. “Is that what you want to be?”

“What? No, of course not,” I say. I'm lost. It's such a weird question. Who the hell wants to be a shitty boyfriend? “I'm really sorry.”

He shakes his head, lifts his shoulders, clears his face. Looks up. Ready. Says resolutely,

“You don't have anything to be sorry for, Baz. It’s been. It was, great. While. You know. I knew you didn't mean. I didn't expect you to. I, I'm just glad we got. I mean, at least. Because. So.”

What the fuck? Why is he speaking in the past tense? “What don't I mean? What was great?” I know he won't actually answer me so I scramble to figure it out before I lose him to whatever darkness is taking him over. I'm all too familiar with the selective consciousness that accompanies extreme emotional distress. You can't hear anything that doesn’t fit with how bad you already feel. I replay the past 5 minutes quickly in my head, and see where it went wrong.

“No, Simon,” I say, trying to take his hand. “Not the boyfriend part. I want the boyfriend part.” I reach for him again and this time he lets me take his hand. “I really, really want the boyfriend part. It was the shitty part I was saying no to.” He looks at me, half doubtful, half hopeful.

“Really? Is that what we are? Boyfriends?”

“Yeah. I mean, of course. I think so. I hope so. What else would we be? What else have we been doing all week?”

He runs his hand over his eyes and shrugs again and this time it breaks my heart. “You hated me a week ago,” he says. “I don’t really know what's going on for you. Maybe you're going to hate me again, now? Now that. How can I know what's going to happen tomorrow? That's why,” he says, looking away. “Why I was so excited to go with you. To the party. To get dressed up and go out with you, with everyone, everyone seeing. Seeing me, with you. Because I'm not sure you'll ever do that with me again.”

By the end of this monologue, his voice has fallen to a whisper. I'm not used to seeing Simon like this. I've seen him flustered. I've seen him anxious, unsure. I've seen him angry. I've seen him happy and wistful and sappy and silly and sad and chagrined. I've seen him desolate. But I've never seen him like this. Defeated. Pathetic. It's disturbing. It's off-putting. And it almost works. Almost. I feel my irritation rise. I feel angry at his repeated insistence that this is all nothing more to me than a game. I feel myself wanting to be rid of this clinging thing. I feel a snide comment moving to the front of my tongue. My eyes are ready to roll, my lips are ready to smirk, my arms are ready to fly into the air in resignation.

But only almost. Because I've done this, too. I recognize it. This thing where you transfer all the loathing you feel for yourself to the person you’re most scared of needing. Making them see you the way you see yourself. I don’t know how it works. But I know that it works. It's like temporary insanity. I've done it with Fiona. It still hurts to remember.

All that is a conversation for another time. For now, I close my eyes. I remind myself of Simon as I see him. As I know him to be. Brave. Selfless. Funny. Sexy. Smart. Forgiving. Determined. Earnest. Enthusiastic. He's the person with a smile like a thousand rockets. Who makes my heart flutter when he aims that smile at me. Simon. Who miraculously likes me, despite everything I've done to make sure he doesn't.

I move closer to him, and he doesn't shift away. Progress. Of some sort. I touch his cheek softly, hoping I'm not overstepping, but needing to touch him. “Simon,” I say, and put down my hand. But I don’t know what else to say. Partly because how the fuck could I possibly know what to say. But largely because I can't be sure of what he’ll hear, regardless of what I say. I want to just hold him. But he's sitting so that he doesn't touch me. I know he's probably not doing it consciously, but that makes it somehow worse. We just sit like that for a while, until finally it gets unbearable. And maybe I really am invading his space. Maybe he just needs some time. I get up and head to our room.

 

 

**Simon**

Baz gets up, and I feel cold without him next to me. I'm acting like a child. What do I want from him? Why do I keep pushing him? If I don’t want him to leave, why am I acting as if I do? I shouldn't just sit here like this. I should get up. I should go talk to him.

What the fuck am I supposed to tell him?

What does he already know? What did Penny (Penny, Penny, Penny) tell him? What does he expect from me? How much of the truth do I owe him? Can I live with it once I tell him? Once he knows? Can I live without the Simon I've built, the Simon of lies?

That's the Simon Baz loves. Not me. I don't know how to explain it to him without unequivocally destroying everything. That's what he doesn't know. There's no solution. No matter what, we’re done. Finished. Over. If I don’t tell him now, I'm hiding. Lying while he knows I'm lying. If I do tell him, I become someone else. Someone with the history that came back with Penny. Someone who can't be loved. Someone no one could love. Not even my own parents. Not even Penny, once she knew.

Penny. I can't think coherently. I just. I can't. It hurts. It hurts too much and it's too confusing and I can't handle it. All I can do is try to disappear, for as long as I can.

 

 

**Baz**

I go to our room, with the idea of maybe giving Simon the stuffed Paddington that I'd bought for him. In a moment of impulsive stupidity. I had passed it in the bookstore. It looked exactly like my Paddington. Which I still have. Which Simon doesn't know. Obviously. Thankfully the insanity had passed before Simon got home that day. Now both Paddingtons are safely hidden away in the dark recesses of my closet. And I feel like, if I can't say anything, maybe I can give him something?

When I get to our room, I hesitate. Maybe this isn't actually such a good idea after all. What would he think? How would I explain myself? Hey, Simon. I'm sorry your life is a traumatic mess and I found you passed out in the snow. Here's a stuffed bear, that should help.

No. That's not going to happen. I go to the closet though, to look at them. They make me feel a little better. And also a little worse. I close the door again. I should go back out there. I would rather sit here and read, though. Simon probably wouldn't even notice. And I can't go back out to him. What would I say about having left (again) if I go back out there? Maybe I could bring something else, so it seems like I got up for a reason. Which is mostly true. Socks maybe? I prefer his feet bare against mine but he's really cold. And he's not touching me anyway. And at least socks are a plausible excuse for getting up.

I walk to his side of the room to try and decipher the tumble of clothes strewn around his bed. Clean socks are better, but it's not clear which those are. Why is he such a slob? Why does it make me smile? I'll get a pair of my own socks. While I'm on his side of the room, though, I may as well rescue what's left of his suit, which is now leaking all over the floor.

As I lift the jacket, something falls out if the pocket. I pick it up and look at it before even registering the thought that maybe I shouldn't. It's a picture. Of Penny. From maybe four or five years ago. It's in one of those little clear plastic things that people carry their metrocards around in. The top edge is peeking out, and has been rubbed worn with time.

He carries a picture of Penny around with him.

I stand there, stunned, making sense of what I've just found. If I'd found it last week, I would've been depressed. I would have been sure it was some girlfriend he was pining for. But finding it now. Finding out that he wanted Penny to find him. That changes everything.

I get out my phone. There are twelve messages from her. Which is a bit excessive, but fair enough. I was supposed to text her when I found him. Not that I'd agreed to. But I'd have done the same in her place. And means I don't have to waste time finding and typing in her number.

 

**Penny**

I’m frantic. I've haven't heard anything from Baz. Or Simon. I got both their numbers from Agatha. It feels bizarre to finally have Simon's number, after all these years of searching for him. It's surreal to be able to just text him. Surreal and terrifying. Because I don't know if he'll write back, or change his phone number so I can't call him again. Both seem equally likely. It's like escaping from the desert and finding a muddy pool of water.

I'm randomly wandering the streets around campus. I couldn't stay at the party. For the past couple of years, I've been carefully planning exactly what I would do when I finally found Simon. How I would approach him. Let him know I found him, see how he was doing. Not just show up in person out of the blue. Best laid plans, blah blah blah. But it sucks. Nothing about my plans for Simon really went the way I wanted them to. I hate the way that life is like that. Not scientific. No way to experiment with different options. No way to test different theories or optimize parameters, and then go back and do the one that works out best.

I text Baz over and over again. I don’t mind harassing him. I'm more hesitant about texting Simon, though. Though not-texting is also an action. I know. I just don't know how he'll read either action. Inertia is winning out so far.

I’m thinking about making Aggie tell me where Simon lives and walking over there. Which is almost definitely a bad idea. When finally, my phone buzzes. It’s Baz. I read his text, breathe a sigh of relief, then set out on my new mission.

 

 

**Baz**

When I get back out to the common room, Simon’s fallen asleep. I don't know what else to call it. It looks like sleep. But it's weird, too, how he just falls asleep like that. It makes me uneasy. I was only out of the room for a couple of minutes, tops. I feel rejected, like he's avoiding me, not sleeping. Which is irrational. Isn't it? Should I wake him? But what if he's just tired? Why piss him off? For that matter, why not let him avoid me?

I stand over him. Partially because I'm being indecisive. Partially because I love watching him sleep. Partially because I don't know if he'd want me to touch him.

I know I'm in way over my head. But what I feel is a strange kind of happy. It's like a sad-happy. (More words that need inventing.) Like a heart-pinching tug. I'm sad he's in pain. I'm happy to be near him. I'm happy to have a place in his complicated, messy life. His bigger-than-life life. I want to be part of his too-muchness. I want to be the person he wants.

I hear Penny at the door more quickly than should have been possible. She must have been nearby. She brought everything I asked for; ice cream and pad thai and scallion pancakes and fancy chocolate and champagne. And a few things that weren't on my list. Two boxes of Entenmen's donuts. A bag of mini-snickers. A gallon of orange juice. If you could translate Simon into a meal, this wouldn't be a bad approximation.

We stand in the kitchen awkwardly. I explain that Simon is asleep, which she can certainly work out for herself since he's lying on the couch like two feet away. But she doesn't say anything snide, she just nods and says,

“Yeah, he does that when he's overwhelmed,”

And I'm struck by the novelty of talking to someone who was there in the shrouded pre-history of Simon’s life. Who can testify to the fact that he didn't just emerge, fully formed, in the freshman dorm on the first day of classes.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” I say truthfully. “We didn't get off to a very good start. I'm Baz. Basilton Pitch.”

She takes my offered hand and apologizes too. “Yeah, that whole scene didn't go quite as I'd imagined. I'm sorry I said you were a shit boyfriend.”

“And a condescending asshole,” I add, smiling. “Which was remarkably observant for someone who'd only just met me.”

She smiles back. “I'm Penny,” she says. “Penelope Bunce.” She looks down at Simon and whispers “I can't believe I finally found him.” She sits next to him, and somehow it feels right to see them together. Like she's always been here. Like they've always hung out in our dorm, Simon sleeping, Penny bearing donuts. She absentmindedly shifts his head from the scratchy cushion to rest on her lap. Her fingers play with his hair unconsciously. I fight back a wave of jealousy, and sit on the other chair, facing both of them.

We sit quietly, but it's not as awkward as it was when she first walked in. Suddenly she looks up at me, catching my eyes sharply.

“Wait. Did you say Pitch? As in Natasha Pitch?”

I'm startled, but my face stays calm as I reply “yes. Her son.”

She leans back. “I heard her son was a student here. I can't believe you were like the first person I met here.”

Curiosity finally overcomes habit, and I ask, “why do you know who I am? Who my mother is?” (I never say was.)

Penny looks at me like I'm daft. “She's a legend. Everyone knows her. She mapped the first complete vertebrate genome. Started a new field of medicine. She was totally robbed when Gransin and Smith got the Nobel prize. Happens all the time, when a group of investigators has just one woman in it. Especially posthumously.” She catches herself on this last word, and glances up at me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so flip about it.”

I shake my head. “No, it's all right. It's… nice. To hear about her. To meet someone who’s heard of her.”

“You're hanging out with the wrong fucking people if you haven't met anyone who knows who she is,” Penny snorts. “Present company excluded, of course,” she adds, smiling fondly at Simon's sleeping form. “He's always been a bit thick.” I smile at her words, her accent. It's weird how everyone close to Simon turns out to be British somehow.

“It kills me,” she says. “That he thought I left him. When this was the only way I could think of to bring him with me. To not end up with us in two different worlds.”

“For what it's worth,” I offer, “I think part of him knows that.” She looks at me, waiting for me to explain. Admitting I went through Simon's pockets seems unwise. I do it anyway.

Her eyes widen when I tell her that he carries her picture around with him, and for a second she kind of looks like him. Amazed, hopeful, dangerously open. I don't think my face is capable of that expression.

I bring her the little photo, and she starts kind of laugh-crying. (Laugh-crying should unequivocally be a word. There is simply no excuse for that one. We need a national neologian.)

“It's from this one day when we skipped school to go to the zoo. I carry the other part of the same picture in my wallet. I talk to it, when I miss him. Every day. He's laughing, in my picture. It was one of those little booths that spits out like a strip of 3 pictures, you know? I had no idea he still had this one.” She's babbling. I've only known her for a couple of hours, but even I can tell she's overwhelmed.

“The zoo?” I say, avoiding the larger questions. “Who the fuck cuts class to go to the zoo?” I don't feel it's necessary to add that when I used to cut class with my friends, it was to get high or start fights. Or more often, both. We'd go to the park, beat people up, take their wallets. For the rush. None of us needed the money. We were all so bored. And other people never totally seemed like people. Probably best to leave this little detail out.

Penny laughs and says, “Simon, that's who! Guess what he likes best at the zoo.”

“Easy.” I say. “The penguins.”

“Not so, clever clogs. It's the giraffes. He loves staring up at them eating leaves, wondering how they can possibly be so tall. He loves that they're so outrageous. Absurd. Like they shouldn't really exist, or like some crazy god just thought them up for a laugh. He finds tall things funny. ” She glances at me. “Come to think of it,” she adds, “maybe that explains a lot.”

I sneer down my nose at her and she laughs. “Yes, exactly. You look ridiculous when you do that.” I pretend not to be offended. She doesn't notice, just keeps talking.

“This time at the zoo was the best, though. I'd forgotten that a couple of weeks before, I'd convinced Simon that North American grey squirrels were endangered. I can't even remember why, anymore. Except that it was always fun to mess with him like that, he's so gullible.” That’s it. I am decidedly a fan of Penny’s now. I'm already smiling, trying to imagine Simon at 16 earnestly trying to save the squirrel. Squirrels are probably the least endangered things on the planet. Aside from roaches. Roaches are going to outlast the sun.

“When we were at the zoo, he started asking every park ranger we met how the effort to save the squirrels was going, saying he was happy to volunteer if there was any way he could help. It was hilarious. Some of the park rangers treated him like a harmless crazy kid, saying things like ‘its all being taken care of but thank you for your support young man.’ A few got annoyed and told him not to waste their time. But one of them totally pretended to know what Simon was talking about. He nodded and offered lots of vague answers and promised to find out how Simon could get involved. They talked seriously about the predicament of the poor squirrel and how tragic it was and what it meant about the environment and a million other things.”

I'm laughing now too. “Squirrels? Seriously? Not even Simon could have believed that an animal that's all over the place could possibly be endangered! In danger of taking over, maybe.”

“Swear to god. He believed it. It was hilarious.”

Simon's eyes stay closed but slaps Penny's arm and says “it was totally your fault!” She looks relieved and slaps him back, saying,

“Ha! I knew that would wake you up.”

And Simon sits up and opens his eyes and continues the conversation as if he hadn't just been asleep on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. (Ok, so it's 10 pm. That totally counts as the middle of the afternoon on New Year's Eve.)

“You told me the infant population was being decimated by some rare virus spread by trees and brought in by alien beetles! You had a name for it…”

“Rodent infant death syndrome!” she squeals.

“Yeah. RIDS. Exactly. And you're not telling the whole story. You're gullible too. I didn't hear you mentioning the fact that you were getting back at me for the time I convinced you that you should dress up like a pilgrim when I took you to a Patriots game.”

And then Penny and Simon are sitting and hugging and laughing and crying and talking at the same time. I give them some space and go grab the food Penny brought.

 

 

**Simon**

I start to wake up as I feel my head being shifted. Penny's playing with my hair like she always does. I wonder if she has any donuts. It seems strange that she's here. And then I wake up a bit more and the memory of the last few hours hits me like a sandstorm. Filling me with a scratchy, suffocating confusion. I wait as the sensation passes, and practice feeling my body and listening to the sounds around me. That was in one of Penny's books, too. How to stay anchored in the present. That's one thing from those books that has actually been useful. I feel my hair, my hands, my feet. Socks? Baz must have put those on. It's a bizarrely sweet thing for him to do.

Baz. I’m dry and warm and indoors, at home, because of Baz. Who's still here, chatting with Penny. Baz is talking to Penny. Baz and Penny. Then who am I? Penny-Simon or Baz-Simon? The thought panics me and my breath starts to speed up. I try to calm down again, listening to the sound of their breath moving in and out, in and out, as they sit there quietly. Does it even matter who I am? Do I need to be one specific thing? Maybe it's enough to just be. Whatever I am. Not try to figure it out.

The thought finally calms me down. Maybe I can just be whatever I am in the moment. It seems easy, lying here, with my eyes closed, and Penny and Baz sitting silently next to me. But what if my eyes open? What if Penny and Baz have to interact, and I'm the only thing they have in common? Won't it matter then, which Simon I am? Won't I be torn in two?

But then they start talking. I smile inside, at the sound of Penny's voice as she asks Baz a question. Penny's using her I-am-about-to-figure-something-out voice. God, I've missed her voice. Now Baz is talking, and his voice is different from what I expected. Warm. Grateful. They're talking about something. Baz’s mother? Penny knows about Baz’s mother? And it makes Baz happy.

I guess I don't have to make sure they're happy. They can do that themselves. Now the thing that's most confusing is why did this seem so impossibly complicated five minutes ago? There's nothing complicated about it. I can just be, just do.

So I do. I tease Penny back when I hear her tease me. And then I let myself be awake. Be present, here, with the two people I love most in the world. Two people who love me right back. Back. Penny's back. Penny's here. I have Penny. And I have Baz. And they have me.


	24. New Year's Eve to New Year's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Penny eat donuts and tell stories. Baz falls apart a little, now that the acute crisis has passed. They end up back in the snow, but this time they have blankets.

**Baz**

I know things are returning to normal when I hear Simon say that he's hungry. I start putting out the food Penny brought, as she and Simon finally get up and join me in the kitchen. (I use the term loosely. It's a sink, fridge, microwave and stove about ten steps away from the couch. That is basically what “kitchen” means in Manhattan. Sometimes there's a bathtub in it.)

“You did bring donuts!” Simon crows, and immediately eats one in about three seconds. Leaving a dusting of powdered sugar on his upper lip that I have to physically restrain myself from licking off. We sit down and tuck in as Simon and Penny tell each other stories from the past four years. I sit back, content to watch and listen. Relieved to see Simon's eyes dancing again.

Still wishing he would take my hand, but grateful to be sitting near him. Sort of. Mostly. Fuck. Why isn't he even looking at me? We never actually resolved the whole boyfriend conversation. I mean, I told him how I feel. I just don't know if he did too. And I'm hoping that he didn't, because if what he said is all he feels, that's not good. Christ. The night is finally getting to me, now that the crisis has passed and my mind lets itself wander again.

I replay Simon's half of the conversation as best as I can remember it. He said I would hate him again when the semester starts. He still thinks I hated him to begin with. He thinks I'm a person who would to use the things I know about him to hurt him. That's what he thinks of me. That's who he thinks I am. And maybe he's right. Maybe that is who I am. All I am.

He tells Penny a story about being mugged his first week of school by two kids he later recognized in Lit Hum. My blood is ice as I listen. He doesn't say who they are. And I can't know for certain. But it sure as fuck sounds like Dev and Niall. I wasn't jumping people anymore when we started college, but I was still getting high with them. Given how long he followed me around, there's no way he doesn't know. That's who I am. Don't I ever get to stop being that person?

Then Penny tells Simon about the police searching her house after he disappeared, and I try to remember that this isn't about me. I listen, horrified, as she describes the state militia turning her house upside down, threatening her parents, confiscating random things.

The state militia? For a missing kid? And it finally clicks. Aster. David Aster. The famous David Aster. Or, as he's known in my father's circles, the communist bane of the southwest. My father's club is always coordinating campaign donations to try and unseat him. They're terrified that he might run as an independent in the next presidential race. His politics are a bizarre mix of liberalism and libertarianism that threatens both of the seated parties. Our country is at war with itself. Only no one knows, because the battles are decided in places like my parents’ sitting room, over sherry and scones. And apparently the war’s self-appointed General of the Left is Simon’s mystery father.

The enormity of what he's running from takes my breath away. It makes more sense now. Why it was so elaborate. Why it took a year to plan, why he changed his name. Why he never breathed a word of his past.

It still doesn't explain anything about why he had to run. But I already know that, somewhere. Even if I don't really know exactly what it is that I know. My stomach turns as my mind replays the nights I've listened to his screams. I fight my imagination. There's no point in imagining. The details don't matter. Or maybe they do. I don't know. He’ll either tell me, or he won't tell me. And in the meantime, all I can do is listen.

 

 

**Penny**

Simon seems to have forgiven me. We eat and talk and catch each other up. Baz is watching Simon with an expression of love and relief that matches my own feelings pretty cleanly. So I let myself get lost in the slowly solidifying reality that I don’t have to spend my life searching for Simon anymore. I found him. He's ok. He's great. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with all my free time now. Hang out with Simon, I guess. Start making master plans again. At least this plan worked. At least David hasn't been able to find him.

But then I find out that actually he did. Find him. Before I did. Fuck.

 

**Baz**

Simon starts telling another story I’ve never heard. About the article that ran with his photo two and a half years ago. That I found online when I found out he was my roommate. That I teased him about that first time we did anything together other than fight. And countless times since, calling him my Hero of Tomorrow. He tells Penny about the note from his father, hand-delivered to his door. Even retelling it now, years later, his voice is dry with terror. I think of how his expression stumbled that day on the ice, right after I'd brought it up. I had thought it was about me, about him not liking me. Because apparently I fucking think that everything is about me.

Penny looks horrified as Simon describes the months after getting the note. Never knowing if David was planning to do anything more than send the note. And then her face looks even more pained as he describes how his fear of David was tempered by his hope that if his father had found him, maybe Penny would too.

 

**Penny**

I explain to Simon that I was in England when the article came out. It hadn't occurred to me to be scanning American newspapers for information. But of course it occurred to David. I wonder what other channels he was monitoring. I wonder if he's listening to us right now. It makes my skin crawl. Being an idiot, I immediately give voice to my paranoia. In my defense, Simon’s life taught me that it’s better to confront problems head-on rather than ignoring them.

On the other hand, this probably wasn't the best moment to go with radical honesty. Simon starts to look sick, and Baz quickly interjects that if this much time has gone by, it probably means that David has moved on. By the look he's giving me as he says it, it's obvious to me that he doesn't believe that any more than I do. But it seems to work, and Simon calms a bit and the conversation moves on to lighter things. He tells me about getting kicked out of his illegal sublet because of a runaway poodle, and I tell him about the plague of snails that hit Oxford my first year there.

Now that Baz has spoken, I realize how quiet he’s been. Too quiet? Hard to know, since I don’t have anything to compare it to. It's certainly been a long night. And Simon and I have basically been ignoring him.

Maybe I should go? I should go. How can I go? Without upsetting Simon? I'll leave it to Baz to arrange. I'll excuse myself to use the bathroom and trust that when I get back, Baz will have arranged for me to leave. I don't know when or how or why it happened, but apparently I trust Baz. I trust him to get it, and I trust him to act without hesitation. I trust him to protect Simon. I wish I could take credit for finding someone else to protect Simon. But it had never really occurred to me to try. Simon found him all on his own.

 

**Simon**

Penny gets up, and it snaps me out of the surreal reunion. I realize I don't even know how it happened. How did Baz know to call Penny? I turn to ask him, but whatever I thought I was going to say dries up in my throat. He looks miserable. His face is unguarded, as if he's alone. He must be really tired to be so unmasked. He's kind of tuned out and doesn't even seem to have registered that Penny and I aren't talking anymore. Shit. I've been totally ignoring him, haven't I? This whole night is a mess.

I reach out for his hand and his eyes snap back into focus. He looks at me, almost warily.

“You ok?” I ask softly, running my thumb along his wrist.

He smiles wryly and shakes his head, saying “are you just getting back at me for asking you the same stupid question earlier?”

I'm startled by the bitterness in his voice. And I'm hurt by the question. “Of course not,” I say. “How can you think I'd do that?”

Baz looks at me incredulously and rolls his eyes. “You cannot seriously have just said that.”

I'm confused, and I say so. “Simon,” he says, clearly at the very limit of his patience and trying to hold on. “You think it’s possible that I might be a fucked up asshole playing some sadistic game with you, pretending to love you but planning to hate you in a couple of weeks. How can you be insulted that I think you might be teasing me? Teasing me for being an idiot when I asked if you were ok earlier when you obviously weren't?”

His light tone is belied by the intensity of his eyes. Sad, angry, hurt eyes. I just say what pops into my head. I’m way past being able to self-censor. I've never been good at it anyway. And everything is so surreal right now.

“I never thought of it that way. That it would be the same both ways. That it would make you a bad person. I know you’re a good person. You can be a good person and still. I mean, good people still want to… It's not about. It's, just. Me. It's just me.”

Baz is still looking at me intensely, but the look on his face has shifted in a way I find unsettling. I fidget uncomfortably. I feel too hot. Too exposed. Too consumed. Too confused. I decide to just keep talking. Which I know is stupid, but I can’t stand the silence. I stop thinking. I just close my eyes and open my mouth and let the words come out.

“My dad. Is good. Everything he does is good. It's just me. Just with me. That, he isn't. Because of how I am. That's the thing, you don't even know me. You know a different Simon, someone I pretend I am. But really I'm this. And usually I can pretend to be the other, good Simon. Most of the time. But, sometimes. I just. Can't. And there’s nowhere for me to hide, with you. I mean, nowhere for you to go, when I'm all wrong. There's no way for you to get away from me. Like, with Agatha. With Agatha, when I couldn’t be the right Simon, I could tell her. Tell her I’m the wrong Simon, and she’d say ok, call me back when you’re the right Simon again. But you can’t get away from me when I’m like this, when I’m all wrong. And as soon as you realize it, I'll lose you. No matter what. I.” And then I run out of words, suddenly, as if the sentences were a rope and I've slid past the end of it. So I open my eyes. I don’t look at him, though.

“Hey, Si,” he says. Not softly, not loudly. Just says it. Something about it makes me feel instantly better. It's so definite, so sure. He takes my hand. “When Penny gets back, let's walk her to Aggie's. I want to show you something.” I find myself nodding. Not sure why. But even that's ok. He's here, holding my hand. And whatever is going on, it's suddenly ok.

 

**Baz**

Of course Simon had to date fucking Agatha. Shallow, cowardly, self-absorbed Agatha. Who would happily agree to let him believe there was something wrong with him just because he wasn’t fucking perfect every fucking minute of every fucking day. How did he manage to find the one person who would confirm his whole fucked up worldview? I guess that question answered itself. That’s what we all do, isn’t it?

What I want to do is to tell him that it’s ok for him to be whoever he is, whenever he’s that. I want to tell him that all I want is to be part of his life, whatever that is. Whatever it was. Whatever it’s going to be. I’m pretty good with words, but not these kinds of words. Words can be unreliable. I don’t know what he’ll hear when I say them. So instead, I'm going to show Simon the stars.

When I used to get scared, my mother would show me the stars. She would sit on the roof with me and tell me stories of kings and knights and magic. She'd tell me about sailors and mermaids and heroes. About talking birds and flying horses and fish that grant wishes. She told me that all the stories shared the same stars. That the stars were always watching. The stars had always been and would always be. She explained that it took so long for the stars’ light to reach us that it made time into a trick that stories play on us. I like to think about the light that the stars gave off as she spoke. The light that still hasn't reached earth yet. So she's still there, somewhere, telling me the stories. And I'm still there, somewhere, listening to her voice.

The stars are the closest I can get to sharing her with Simon. It won't fix anything, I know that. But it’s all I have to offer. I don’t really know if it’ll work, if he’ll see the same thing I do when he sees the stars. But it’s worth a shot. At least we’ll be outside. But this time, we’re going to be prepared. No more slush suits. Hence the pit stop at Aggie's.

 

**Penny**

When I get back to the table, they’ve already cleared it and are getting on their coats. They’re both really quiet. I try not to be annoyed that they think they need to walk me back to Aggie’s.

“You know I am perfectly capable of walking three blocks by myself, right?” I ask anyway.

“It’s not always about you, Bunce,” Baz says, and I’m so astonished by his arrogance that I can’t even speak. Is he fucking kidding me?

“Yes,” he says, reading my mind. Or maybe just my face. “But it’s still true. We’re going outside.” The slight emphasis on the word ‘we’ clues me in. Of course. Simon, outdoors. Always a good combination. I find myself grateful again that Simon found this guy. Not that I’ll let him know it.

“Fine, go outside. But you’re not walking me home like I’m some-”

“Like I said, Bunce. Not about you. I have to get something from the storeroom in Watt.”

I’m pretty sure he’s lying, but there’s no point in continuing to argue about it. I’m willing to concede that there was no point in arguing about it to begin with. And it’s nice to have some time with Simon, walking around outside. It’s the first clear night in a while, and the air smells fresh. Which is seriously unusual in the city. When we get to Watt, I expect to call Baz’s bluff, but to my surprise he actually waves goodbye and heads toward the stairs as I wait for the elevator. I smile as the elevator door closes, and I see Baz take Simon’s hand. Maybe it’s just because it’s New Year’s Eve. But still. It feels like something has just ended, and something else is about to begin.

 

**Simon**

I watch, curious and confused, as Baz expertly picks the lock on a storeroom off the hall in the basement of Aggie’s dorm. It takes me a minute to make sense of what's inside. The room is lit up in sequential small slivers of light thrown by the tiny flashlight Baz apparently carries with him. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this.

Camping gear.

Baz moves through the room confidently, picking some things out and leaving others where they are.

“Um, Baz?” I ask stupidly. “What’s going on? What is all this?”

“Didn't I ever tell you I was a Boy Scout?” he replies.

Even I'm not gullible enough to believe that. “Since when do Boy Scouts learn how to pick locks?”

He laughs and explains that he took camping for one of his phys ed requirements sophomore year. Which only makes me more confused. Baz and camping don’t exactly make sense in the same sentence. But then I remember the camping club in high school, which was basically the smoke-pot-and-have-sex club. And it makes a little more sense. Then I’m ashamed of myself. Maybe he just likes the outdoors. Why should that be any more impossible than anything else? I decide not to say anything. But my curiosity grows as he efficiently packs some gear into two backpacks, and hands one to me.

“Um. Are we... We’re going camping? Right now?” I finally ask, as we head out laden with tarps, sleeping bags, mats and glow sticks.

“Sort of,” he replies. And then he sets off quickly and I have to scramble to keep up. He’s so damn tall. It's completely unfair.

 

**Baz**

I take Simon up to Grant’s Tomb. It’s a bizarrely beautiful, quiet spot that’s barely ten steps away from campus but feels like a different world. And it's far enough away from the city's light pollution that on a clear night, like this one, you can lie flat on your back and actually see the stars.

Everything sort of folds in on itself here. Boundaries blur. And that’s also what I want to show him. The river next to the highway. The stars above the traffic. The quiet, the noise. The sky, the city. All mixed up. Nothing is ever only one thing. Everything is mixed up with everything else, and it’s ok. It's inevitable. It just is.

I spread out the tarps and the camping blankets and we lie down, heads close. Holding hands. Looking up at the sky. Not talking. Just breathing. Then I tell him. About kings and magic. About the stars that connect everything, across time, across space. Across life and death. Over mountains and oceans, over stones and beasts, over monsters and gods.

Then Simon starts telling me about the stars in the desert at night. He tells me that the stars there are so thick that they look more like a continuous ghostly sheet of silver than individual points of light. I can see them as he describes them, as if each word is casting a spell. As he speaks, the stars gather around us so it's just me and Simon and every star in the sky. This must be what it's like to be Simon. To be so full of brightness that it spills out of you, painting the sky with fire. To see and feel and live with such intensity that sometimes the only way to survive is to fall fast asleep in the middle of everything.

He seems to be doing better now, though. The cold air relaxes him. I think he might be a little bit claustrophobic. If you can call it claustrophobia when any indoor space elicits the anxiety, regardless of size. I'm claustrophobic too. But only in small spaces. I got locked in a chest in the attic once. I was eight. Nothing sinister. Just a game of hide and seek that went terribly wrong. I have no idea how long I was in there. Time lost all meaning when I was locked in the cold and dark, not knowing if anyone could hear me screaming. Not sure if anyone would come looking for me. If anyone even knew I was missing. It sends a shudder through me, just thinking about it.

Simon must feel it, because he squeezes my hand a little tighter. “Baz?” he whispers. “What’s wrong?” I don’t know why he's whispering. I guess it's a night for whispers in the dark. So I whisper back, and find myself telling him the story of being locked in what I thought would be my coffin. I've never told anyone this story. I've never been this close to someone before. As I talk, he rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. It's comforting, like a song of silent reassurance. So I talk and I talk. When I'm quiet he keeps stroking my hand. He shifts a little so we're even closer. And then he starts talking.

He's hesitant at first, stopping after every other word like he does when he's trying to say something that matters to him. Then his voice grows more fluent, and the stories flow out of him. First it's a story about being locked in the dark, too. He doesn't specify how he got there. And I don't ask, because by now I have some idea of what the answer is. By now my mind has let itself connect the dots. The sounds he makes when he has nightmares. The look on his face when he saw Penny. Secret identities and state militias and Simon. Simon’s screams, Simon’s smiles, Simon’s terrors, Simon’s light.

He speaks in a disturbingly matter-of-fact way, as though describing something mundane. That's not quite the right word. But something everyday, prosaic. Like he's describing the color of the paint on his bedroom walls. Not telling me about his father breaking three fingers on his right hand for stealing a yogurt when he was five. Stealing, but not from a store. From his own fridge. Because he wasn't allowed to eat that day. Which was itself a punishment for being clumsy, for tripping carrying the laundry down the basement stairs. He was five, doing laundry. Trying to go quickly so his father wouldn't be angry. And he fell. He always fell. He always failed.

As he talks, his voice gains color and loses volume in equal increments, until I feel his words more than I hear them. Everything was a series of games and rules. Games he could never win, rules he could never hope to follow. My eyes close as I start to understand what he’s really been saying all this time, what I’ve heard but never understood. Why he thinks I’m toying with him. Why he thinks life is a trap waiting to be sprung.

My breath hurts as it moves in and out of me. I’m angry. Pointlessly, helplessly, extravagantly angry. He doesn’t seem to notice, or to care, or to want anything from me beyond my lying here next to him. Listening.

I imagine myself with wings; with giant, black, immutable wings that I fold up and over and around us. My fingers extend as talons, bars of a fierce cage that wrap protectively around his, and hold them fast.

His mouth is up next to my ear and his breath is warm on my cheek and at some point I feel the side of my face growing wet with the tears falling down his face. Our faces are separated by the span of a single drop of water, and then connected by the salty wetness that blooms silently on both our skin as he talks, and talks, and talks. And I listen and hold his hand and keep my thoughts inside but let my tears join his. Let our tears join us to one another.

Then he's silent and I'm silent. I don't know what to say. I'm frozen. Until I realize that in a situation at fucked as this one, my choice of words isn't going to be what makes it worse.

So I break the silence and whisper his name. I'm silent again, and then I whisper again, to tell him I got him a little bear. I whisper that I love him and I whisper that he's good he's goodness he's Simon I love him I love him I love. Him. I love him.

And then it's kind of peaceful in the bright darkness with no more secrets between us and no space between us and nothing to push us apart. After a while, I think he might have fallen asleep again. But then he speaks.

“Hey, Baz,” he whispers. “Do you think it’s midnight yet?”

“Probably,” I start to say. But before the last syllable of the word can fully resolve from adjective to adverb, his mouth is on mine and his hands are in my hair. The new year rushes in with Simon’s tongue, carried on his breath and holding me fast with his arms. And I hold on back. The year starts, and we’re outside. Dry and warm. Surrounded by the stars. Wrapped in whispers. Side by side, in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm rereading this and realize that I didn't make it clear that this is also a resolution to the horrible conversation over wonton soup on Christmas, when Baz channels Malcolm and stiffly says something like "I'm sure it'll be settled in a week or two" and then later Simon asks him if that's their deadline for trying again, a week, which would be New Year's Day, and even tho they don't end up spending the week taking things slow and keeping their distance, Simon is still determined to kiss Baz as soon as the week is up. Which is now.


	25. January 1st, about 6 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of the new year. Simon and Baz wake up. It's another unsure morning, after another intense night. But they're better at this, now. And they have a little help.

**Simon**

My eyes open, but then I close them immediately. I don’t know if Baz saw me do that. But either way, I have to close them. The light hurts, my stomach hurts, and I feel the horror of regret that comes with any morning that follows a night spent doing something truly stupid.

I try to cheer myself up with a not-even-joke about how hey, everyone feels like that when they wake up on New Year’s, ha ha. Of course, I know I wasn’t drunk. And I know that the kind of regret I’m feeling bears as much similarity to a hangover as grief bears to the flu.

I can, and do, take some comfort in the warmth of Baz next to me. Still asleep. (Or maybe not.)

But I’m not ready for who I will have to be this morning.

I remember the first morning that I woke up next to Agatha after whispered nighttime confessions.

I never told her much, but I did sometimes tell her things. Vague things, the kinds of things that might have happened to any kid with shitty parents. Getting hit, or being hungry, or things like that.

I’d tell her this stuff when things were good between us, on days when I’d been triggered by something worse than usual in the paper or in a book for class or something. Some part of me that was small, and sad, and wanted to be seen, would decide it could peek its head out a little, because maybe now it was safe.

It happened more than once, and I regretted it every time. I’m not great at learning lessons like that.

But it was worst that first morning, after the first time, when I didn’t know yet how it would go.

The night before, when I’d mumbled an offering of small truths, it was the end of the day and we were half asleep in bed. In that initial moment of telling, Agatha had hugged me and kissed my dripping eyes and my wet cheeks and the top of my head and told me she loved me; we fell asleep wrapped up in each other.

I woke up that first morning filled with a kind of hopeful terror. I had taken a step off a path that ran along an abyss, and I was about to find out how far the ledge extended; how much weight it could hold. I was filled with the terror of what would happen now that my secrets were known, and I was filled with hope that maybe it would be something good. Maybe it would make something shift in the fabric of my life, maybe something inside me would move and some of the sadness would lift. Maybe I could be less hidden. Maybe I had a place in this world of love and normalcy. Maybe I wasn’t the shattered, broken creature I’d always feared I was.

I had told a tiny bit of my secret. An unknown part of myself was known. Was there a place in the world of knowing for that part of myself? What would Agatha _do_? What would she _say_? What would happen now?

I’d always assumed there were two possibilities: belief, or disbelief. I’d sometimes imagined them playing out. Of course the reality, when it happened, wasn’t any of the things I’d rehearsed in my head. Agatha didn’t sit with me and hold me and tell me it’s all ok and it’s over now and it was terrible and it never should have happened and will never happen again. Nor did she sit me down and tell me I was lying for attention, or that it was too much for her, that I was too damaged, that she didn’t want to know these things, that she didn’t want me if I came broken like this.

She didn’t attack me; she didn’t comfort me. She basically didn’t react at all. She started the day like it was a normal Saturday. She complained about an annoying kid in her seminar; she chatted about what we should eat for brunch; she teased me for probably not caring what it was, as long as it was food.

At first it was a relief. It was no big deal! I could unwrap a shard of my secret self, and nothing at all would happen.

But gradually, lying in bed and listening to her talk, the relief turned into claustrophobia. I felt invisible. I had stepped out from behind the shadows that always blocked me from sight. I’d emerged, bloody and exposed, but it was as if I were still hidden. I still couldn’t be seen.

I felt the invisibility turn to shame. Because I realized, as I lay there, that I wanted something I couldn’t have. Could never have. I wanted someone to make it all better; I wanted someone to make me feel better. I wanted to be comforted, I wanted to be seen, I wanted to be told so many things.

I stayed in bed listening to her talk about nothing. I kept waiting, waiting for her to say something else. I waited, feeling like an idiot, knowing there was nothing to be waiting for. There was nothing else to be said. But still, I wanted, wanted, _wanted_ , I wanted so painfully that it was hard to breathe. I wanted things no one could ever give me; I wanted in a way that was too much to ever want from another person.

I started to feel embarrassed, then really uncomfortable, and then finally I apologized.

I knew it was a weird thing to do, to apologize. I was still in bed and she was getting dressed and chatting about the weekend and I wasn’t sure if she would even know what I was talking about.

But she knew, she knew immediately. And she looked at me kindly and she said, _it’s ok honey, I don’t mind if you need to tell me things like that sometimes._

Which is how I discovered there was a third possible reaction to my showing a hidden slice of myself, a reaction that I’d never considered before; and it was somehow the worst one of all. A patient pity. An altruistic willingness to bear brief witness, if that’s what I needed.

It left me raw. Raw, and exhausted and miserable and scared. Scared, and sad and hurt and lonely.

Every time I glanced at her, it hurt. Every word she spoke was about something else, and each word struck me. I felt battered, shaken, hurt. I was aware of how unfair it was of me to feel like Agatha was hurting me. Agatha wasn’t the one hurting me. She wasn’t doing anything but accepting me.

It was my own fault that instead of feeling accepted, I felt unloved. Even though I knew that she loved me. My feeling unloved was about me, not her; it was about the things I wanted and wished in some hungry way that was frightening and humiliating and pathetic and had no place here in this world of calm, normal people.

The shame was scorching, suffocating. It flared, it seared, it fucking hurt, and I found myself apologizing again. I just said, “I’m sorry.”

I’m not good with words, so I didn’t say the rest of it. And I couldn’t have said the rest of it, because the things I was sorry for were too humiliating: I was sorry for wanting too much. I was sorry for dragging her into this ugly corner my life where she was contaminated and poisoned. I was sorry that, without asking, without her knowledge or permission, I’d told her something that now left her covered with the oozing black decay that burst from the unbearable weight of pain and shame born of wanting and wishing and raging.

I wished, wished, desperately wished I could take it all back. That I’d never spoken. That I’d never opened the door to this impossible configuration, where she was being kind and normal and I felt hurt and humiliated by it.

I spent days, maybe a week, maybe more, lost in the feeling of wanting and wishing for something from her that I never got. Every layer of feeling came with a meta-layer of knowing how fucked up the feelings were. There was the anger, and the self-hatred that the anger brought. There was the humiliation of wanting, all the while knowing that the wanting was wrong and misplaced. There was the twisted, twisting knowledge that all of it, the whole constellation of feelings and counter-feelings, was all just a very obvious microcosm of everything I’d ever felt as a kid.

It made me feel like I was a kid again. A kid I wasn’t supposed to be, anymore. I was supposed to be an adult, I was free and safe and it was so fucking shitty to still feel like this. I pouted and wallowed and felt angry and confused and alone and guilty and scared.

And it made me feel this: it made me feel that I was tainted, rotted. I slathered this miserable version of the world onto my relationships with other people, and those relationships died and suffered and withered and grew grotesque.

For the first few days, I couldn’t stand the idea of even seeing her. I made sure to send her texts and emails about normal day-to-day stuff, so she wouldn’t think I was ignoring her. So I wouldn’t lose her in the meantime, lose her because of whatever insanity this was, that suddenly had me raging at the world and furious that it wouldn’t rage along with me.

Slowly, it passed. For a while afterward, I remembered the cauterizing shame that flared out of that accepted apology. Its heat sealed me completely, closed me off even more tightly than before. Which was, in its own way, great. When I hide so convincingly, I am hidden from myself too. Which feels great, until it doesn’t.

Time did its thing, and the whole experience faded, and things went back to how they were. It only happened a couple of other times. The confessions, I mean. When some lonely and sad part of me couldn’t resist trying again to be seen, when the cover of night and love gave the illusion that it was safe, that people wanted to see it.

Not “people.”

Agatha.

And not “it.”

Me.

The illusion and hope and fear, that Agatha wanted to see me for what I am. Not all of me, of course. I was never confused enough to think that. But maybe she could want to know some of the edges of me that I had kept hidden, like scrapes along the edge of a gaping hole. Maybe the scrapes could be allowed to breathe, even if the pulsing gore at the center had to remain securely bandaged over.

The next morning would always bring the flame of humiliation, which I would endure quietly until I could make my escape and go home to hide and cry until the madness left me.

It’s been a long, long time since the last time. Aggie and I broke up six months ago. More. And all through the months that came before we finally, finally broke up, things had been tense enough between us that there was no moment of alignment and love that lulled me into incaution.

But, then.

Now.

Last night. Fuck.

Fuck.

Last fucking night.

Yesterday would have all been humiliating enough, even without the nighttime confessions. But the intensity and shock of the whole night, and the landing pad of stars and warmth and love that followed, knocked some major chunk of self-protection askew. And I.

I told him. So much. Too much. Not that much. Not the worst parts, not close. But more, so much more than I’d ever told anyone.

And the shame begins to sear me from the inside out. I’m engulfed. I lie still, and I burn.

**Baz**

I wake up more slowly than usual. I’m oddly cold and hot. I silently take stock of the mini furnace of Simon beside me, and the biting cold of the January air on my face.

Ah, air; because I’m outside.

I blink. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, and sleep all night. How the fuck are we still alone? How did we not get mugged or even hassled, alone all night outside in a dark park in Manhattan? Simon must have some fucking guardian angel watching over him. I sure as fuck don’t, so it has to be him.

And then my heart stops, and I lie back down.

Simon sure as fuck doesn’t have a guardian angel either.

Oh, Simon.

I wrap my arms around him, remembering my wings from last night. They felt so real around us. I have no idea what to do or say, or not do or not say. But I know that if there are going to be words, they are going to have to come from me. Simon’s shit with words.

And there have to be words, because everything that happened can’t just be left unacknowledged. Everything that happened, and everything Simon told me.

Simon is physically pretty big, but he feels so small beside me. I feel an aching angry tenderness, and it’s pressing against all my boundaries and I have to say something or do something or I will explode.

But the words don’t come.

I suppose that, on balance, my words failing me is a small loss. But I feel it keenly. Simon can communicate anything with a lift of his shoulder and the turn of his lips. All I have is an eyebrow, and words. And the eyebrow is not the right medium for communication right now.

So I stay quiet, like a fucking idiot. And Simon turns to me, and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Fair enough. That was one hell of a shitty night.

But then he sits, stands, sits again, kneels. Starts folding blankets and finding backpacks. A sickening familiarity washes over me, freezing me to the core. This is how he was, the morning after the unfinished wonton soup. After the unacknowledged silent nightmare. Before I went to the bakery to find him; to apologize to him and thereby rescue myself.

I can’t let that much time pass, this time. I spent too fucking long that time, finding words and forcing myself to say them. I know it’s different, this is not a thing I’ve done, but it feels like it is, somehow. Or haven’t done. My thoughts are incoherent, and that’s unnerving all by itself. I expect more from myself. I am failing everyone.

I think about turning the water off when he tried to do the dishes. I think about pulling socks over his feet as he slept. And I discover something I didn’t know.

I am more than I thought I was. I have more than eyebrows and sneers. I have hands, and eyes, and dry clothes; I have socks when feet lie bare, cold and alone. I pull in breaths of warm knowing, to melt the icy knowing that usually wins. I think, suddenly, of the girl from inpatient. It had mattered to me, the fact that she spoke. What she said. What she asked, really. She hadn’t been speaking to me, but she had spoken, and it had mattered.

I’m not making sense, and I realize I’m shaking. I realize that this is about me, too. It’s confusing. But it has to be better to speak than to be silent.

So I speak. I say, _Simon_.

It comes out weak. I feel a little ashamed of it, my voice, my shaking self. But when I try again, it happens again. I say it again, just as weak. _Simon._

He stops what he’s doing, and turns to me. I’m kneeling now, too, facing him. It’s uncomfortable. My knees hurt, and it’s cold as fuck, and the pain is grounding, and that can’t be a good thing, and it doesn’t matter. When I open my mouth to try, again, all that comes out, again, is his name. _Simon_.

And then I see it, a small crack in the emptiness that had invaded his face. I reach for it, for him. My hands hover above the cracks, over skin and bone. He tilts his head, just slightly, and my fingers find his cheek. His face is a question. I want mine to be an answer, but I don’t even know my own face. Not anymore.

My other hand moves without my watching it, and takes his. He stills. I hold on like that, hand and face and hand and hand. I try again, to speak. This time, something new comes out. _I._

Then I stall, again. I what? I try again. _I._

And stall again. What? What can I ascribe to myself that will say what I want to say.

And all at once, I know what it is like when he does this. When he speaks, and pauses, and speaks, and repeats, and stalls. This. It feels like this. Like thoughts started and aborted. Like a stubborn courage to try again any way. To stop and start and stop but still start and start and start again.

I am filled with a strange fierce gratitude to him for always trying. For managing to remain himself, somehow, all this time. Even though I know he has changed, it’s not the same self; still, there’s something fundamental about it that he had to fight to keep. And I am so glad, grateful, awed, frightened, and glad again.

I try to tell him this, then. That I am thankful to him for being. But those are words that would be impossible to explain with words. I get stuck again at _I_.

I shake my head, frustrated with myself, and panicking with every second that goes by when I fail to say anything. I finally grow still, give up, watch him; I stop trying to talk. We look at each other, and time passes in a faulty rhythm I can’t track.

I don’t know what he sees in my face.

I know what I see in his. I see him grow uncertain. I see a flash of panic, I see a hot flush that must be shame. I burn to see it. I want to soothe it away, but I am burning. I see the crumbling avalanche that sweeps across his features, leaving devastation in its wake, as his face implodes and he suddenly falls into me, sobbing.

I hold him, and he shakes. This happens, happened, is happening. I say his name when I can, when my lungs manage to push the air through my chest and past my blocked throat, across my larynx and into the air between us. _Simon._

In the end, that is all I think I will manage to say. And it is not fucking enough.

So I hold him tighter and put my face near his ear and let him feel me and hear me and I tell him. I tell him I am so fucking angry at what happened. To him. What was done, to him. What his father did to him. I tell him that I love him, and that even if I didn’t love him I would still be so fucking angry, but I also do love him, and the whole thing is so wrong. It is so wrong, it was so wrong, it shouldn’t have happened and someone should have stopped it and someone should have been there for him and with him and. Even though I know it’s impossible and irrational. I tell him. That I wish it had been me, that I wish I had rescued him, that I am angry with the world that left him undefended, and at myself for being part of the world that coexisted in time with all that horror, coexisted but didn’t end it.

And then I just tell him I love him again, and I start to tell him the things I love about him. I tell him the things I reminded myself of last night. I love him because he is brave. I love him because he is good. I love him because he is smart. I love him because he is true. I love him for the way he reacts to ribbons on boxes and his passion for soccer and muffins and other people. I love the loud exuberant mess he brought into my stilted world. I love him for exploding my world around me, and for wanting me still. For letting his world encompass mine, for having me, for telling me, for knowing me, for letting me know him, for speaking and listening and just being quiet and just being loud and just being. Simon.

 

**Lucy**

The new year starts with slowly building light and the sounds of birds in the empty trees. The boys wake up beside one another, under Grant’s watchful gaze. It is easy for me to watch them here, alongside the stronger dead. I can see in Baz’s anxious glance around them that he knows how unlikely it is to wake without incident after sleeping all night in this park near the tomb. I send a breeze his way to let him know it’s ok. I was watching. I don’t have power enough to change something dark that is intent on doing harm. To my everlasting sorrow. But I can keep away the lesser dark. I can clear safety in the park and hold fast a perimeter of light. Especially when my light can feed on the light of the spirits within it. And no spirits glow brighter than these two.

My Simon seems confused when he opens his eyes. I see the fear in them. But it doesn’t rip through what’s left of me the way it usually does. This is a different fear. Fear of what will happen now that Baz has truly seen him. And I know what will happen. So I am not afraid. And soon Simon won’t be either.

Baz moves to touch Simon’s face. Baz whispers Simon’s name. Simon freezes. Baz sees it and crumples. Baz fears that he will lose my son now that he knows his secrets. It’s not impossible, still. Baz whispers “I’m sorry,” though he has no cause to be.

If I had a breath I would hold it, in hope that Simon will be brave again. This is the time for him to be brave. It will be an ending and a beginning. I want to whisper in his ear. Remind him that Baz already knows. Ask how much riskier could it be to open his feelings to Baz, than to have revealed his darker secrets? But only he can do it.

My poor boy. My love. It will be ok, my little one. This one is safe. This one is good. This one you can let inside. I’ve brought you together, and you will keep one another safe.

Perhaps he hears me. Or perhaps he just sees the other boy’s face fall and twist. Now it is my Simon who is speaking softly. Baz is a harsh name, all fricatives and sharp vowels. But the word sounds soft the way Simon says it. Sounds like a heart just starting to beat.

I see Simon watching Baz’s face, and I see the love open his own face. I can’t resist swirling the leaves in a wind of joy. My brave boy. My smart boy. Simon recovers his courage and moves closer to Baz. Simon closes his eyes, leans forward tentatively. Whispers so quiet even a spirit can hardly hear. Whispers the name, Baz. Whispers the word, love. Reaches his hand, skin touching skin.

Now Baz moves without thinking, letting his lips find Simon's. Baz lets Simon tell him his love. He whispers his own love with a trembling voice. Simon’s arm steadies him and is steadied by him. Then they kiss, and it is what a kiss should be. It is peace and turmoil. It is vulnerability and strength. It is giving and taking, finding and losing. Letting oneself be lost. Letting oneself be found.

If I had breath, I would laugh in delight. It is enough for me, though. Enough to just watch them.

I watch Baz swoon with the lightheaded feeling of kissing this beautiful, wonderful creature. The boy who's somehow caught his heart in a way he'd never thought possible.

I watch Simon relax under Baz’s hands and smile against his mouth. I see Baz realize that Simon is scared. That Simon was scared that Baz wouldn’t want him, absurd as that is. I see Baz reassure Simon with his breath and bones.

I hear Simon let out a sigh of contentment and heat as he explores Baz’s lips with his, one hand gently resting on Baz’s shoulder while the other cradles Baz’s cheek. I watch as Baz leans in, wrapping his other arm lightly but firmly around Simon’s waist, mindful not to hurt him.

Strange for lives so bitter to make boys so sweet. Baz tastes like sweet tea and milk. He smells of cedar and moonlight. Simon tastes like cinnamon and sunshine. He smells of spice and fire.

Baz feels a surging heat that takes his breath away. For a moment it erases everything else he knows about Simon, everything he just learned. All that is left is Simon himself.

Baz kisses him reverently, longingly, with wonder. Simon feels it. It makes something flower inside him. He hadn’t known there was still life in it. The feeling of being wanted. Of being loved, being good, being something worth holding on to.

They both taste salt and don’t know whose tears are whose.

It becomes a soft kiss, a quiet kiss, a kiss full of questions. They pause and lie still for a minute with their foreheads together, breathing each other’s breaths in and out. They share a sense of awe that they are each scared to break with words. So painful to be mortal. To not know what the other is thinking.

Simon opens his eyes first, and Baz’s immediately follow. Blue eyes search grey and find what they were looking for. Simon’s smile is different this time, tired and vulnerable. Baz’s smile is the same, wondering and grateful.

I turn away. Even a spirit knows when to gift the living with privacy. Spirits prefer to be free, but some versions of hidden are good. They can be hidden from other eyes, because they are not hidden from one another. Not anymore.

 

**Natasha**

I watch Lucy as she watches our sons. I see her colours change with joy. She seems at peace.

She’s always been foolish. This is not over.

Still, I am happy too to see this obstacle crumble. It has pained me so long to watch Basil wander. I don’t discount Lucy’s magic in bringing them together. It is a miracle for them to let themselves be loved. I didn’t think Basil would ever take the risk again. I didn’t care much one way or another about Simon. But I am impressed by the child’s courage. And I am grateful for how he loves my son.

I was angry at first when Lucy brought this whiff of Davy near Basilton. But she persisted and she prevailed. And she was right. Simon has nothing of Davy in him. Lucy gave herself completely to the child, and managed to protect him from harboring any part of the devil. Despite growing up with the devil’s code embedded in the very cells of his body, and the devil’s rules controlling every moment of his life. There is a strength in Lucy and Simon that I wouldn’t have credited had I not seen it myself. But this boy is worthy of Basilton.

And I have to give Lucy credit, too, for finding Agatha to bring them together. I wouldn’t have believed guides still walked among the living. But she found her. I don’t know what she was thinking, dragging Mitali’s girl back into this. Lucy’s always been more sentimental than sensible.

So: Agatha brought Basilton; Agatha brought Simon; Agatha brought Penny.  

A three-part guide. It’s unprecedented. Lucy does have power in her, strange and raw as it is. Little good it did her in life. But she's held fast to it in death. For these two. For our sons, so they don’t follow in the ways of their fathers. I convince Lucy to let the guide go, now. It will not do, to push beyond three.

I indulge for a moment in the sweet beauty of the children’s love. And then I gather myself up and move forward. I leave Lucy be, for the moment. These years have been hardest on her, and she has earned the pleasure of her success.

I will have to come back for her later. This is not over. We cannot yet rest. Davy is still out there, coming closer every day. We will be ready.


	26. February 2nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon exchange violin kisses. Hopefully the chapter is better than the pun. It would have to be, wouldn't it?

_February 2nd_

**Baz**

Last week, Simon sat me down to tell me that I should play the violin. I felt the need to point out that I already do. But he waved at me impatiently, as though I were being purposely thick. (Which I can neither confirm nor deny).

He specified, with exaggerated patience, that I should play the violin _for a broader audience than just myself._  And any obsessed boyfriends who might be lurking in the hallway when I practice.

He wasn’t speaking hypothetically, as it turns out. Which is how I find myself walking down the cliff beside him on a cold, wet Friday afternoon, with my violin in tow.

I don't know why I let him drag me into these situations. Or rather, I do know, and I'm not very proud of it. It's just this: I can't say no to him. Especially when his eyes go all wide and he starts bouncing on the balls of his feet in genuine enthusiasm for whatever scheme he's got going.

 _Scheme_ may be a tad harsh, I grant you. He’s arranged for me to give a demonstration and then talk about what it's like to perform onstage, to a bunch of students at PS180 who will be going on a field trip to Carnegie Hall next week.

The school’s philosophy is to encourage the kids to imagine themselves being onstage one day, not just in the audience. To think of themselves as world-class professional musicians-in-training, no matter how unlikely it may seem right now.

So here I stand, tuning my violin in the poorly ventilated auditorium of the elementary school. I feel like a complete fraud. I haven't actually performed on stage since I was 16, but Simon dismissed that excuse with a wave of his hand. In fact, his exact words were:

“Don't even _try_ to get out of this on a technicality.”

I answer the kids’ questions and then play a few short pieces. One classical. One pop song. One Irish jig. Just to screw with their teacher. (Which doesn't work. She’s thrilled. Apparently she did her PhD in ethnomusicology. Apparently these kids’ elementary school violin teacher has a fucking PhD. Remind me to ask my parents why they thought spending $85k a year for private school made sense in New York City.)

Next, the students come onstage in groups roughly organized by skill, and play something. I give them each some tips on how to stand and move when they're onstage instead of in class. Then they play again, occasionally whooping and smiling in delight when my advice helps. I have to bite my cheek to hide my own grin.

It's all actually quite fun. Not that I'm planning on admitting that to Simon any time soon. He's insufferable enough as it is. But I start to see what he means about his volunteer work being as much for him as for them.

What is most striking, though, is that after all the performances, no one looks like they want to hide or throw up. THe kids are all high-fiving and laughing as they put their instruments in banged-up rental cases and stream outside.

None of these kids were forced to start playing when they were three, well before they could even pronounce the word violin. None of them ever felt pressure to play until their fingers bled, or missed their best friend’s birthday party every year because they had to practice at least eight hours every weekend.

My musings are cut short by a rush of messy hair and blue eyes and warm lips. Simon pulls and pushes at me until we are hidden backstage, behind the dusty school-issue stage curtain. Then he kisses me so fiercely that I completely forget who I am or where we are.

**Simon**

I shouldn't have been nervous. I was worried that Baz’s anxious politeness would come off as arrogance. And for the first few minutes, that's exactly how it went down.

But then Baz relaxed and the kids asked him a million smart questions and he smiled. None of them paid much attention to his smile. None of them had any idea how rare a phenomenon they were witnessing. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, smiling. Warmly, genuinely. In a room full of strangers. With no trace of self consciousness.

I'm surprised to discover that I'm close to tears. Luckily, no one is paying the slightest bit of attention to me. All eyes are focused on Baz. And he's totally focused on the kids.

He considers each question quietly, then answers it firmly and confidently. Exactly how he would answer questions in a senior seminar, or at an academic conference after delivering a paper.

The students respond well to the seriousness with which he takes them. They sit up straight, listen raptly, ask follow-up questions. I feel unreasonably proud, as though I am somehow responsible for Baz’s sincerity and insight.

All this is just to explain that I am already feeling emotional when Baz starts to play. And then I shatter.

I've never seen him play before. I've only ever heard him from behind a closed door, down a hallway.

His face is so beautiful when he plays, that it's almost painful. His body is a single sinuous, continuous organism, built to bend and glide and draw sound from the air. His eyes close in concentration, and he loses himself to the music. His emotions show clearly on his face, as he frowns and smiles and sways and sighs.

It's mesmerizing. It's more than that. It's fucking hot. I become desperate for him, for his hands to move on me, for him to be lost to the sensations of being with me. I've never heard of a music fetish before, but the effect of watching him play is undeniably physical.

I spend the next half hour lost in an agreeable daze. I start getting impatient as, finally, one or two at a time, the students thank Baz and shuffle out. It's all I can do to wait until the room is mostly empty before I jump up and drag him offstage, my mouth already on his.

He's surprised, but doesn't hesitate as he kisses me back. When my hands start to wander more boldly down his body, he stills me with a laugh.

“Seriously Si. I don’t really need this much encouragement. I had fun.”

**Baz**

“Shut the fuck up and let me kiss you,” he growls. And so I do. For a while, anyway. Until my anxiety about a kid walking back here any second becomes unbearable, and I pull away reluctantly. He whines and I smile again.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what brought this on?” I ask, leaning into him.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. I watch him blush, and raise my eyebrow in a silent question. He just grins and kisses me again. “Unless you can think of somewhere better, Baz, I'm going to keep kissing you right here.”

I roll my eyes and try to interject between kisses. “Mmm? I don’t know. Better than here. That's hard. Maybe Times Square? Live TV? My sister’s twelfth birthday party? Outside in the freezing rain? Or, of course, we could go back home. To our bedroom. Which, in case you've forgotten, we share.”

“Not happening,” he says, finally pulling away. “It's no fun there. You're so. Quiet. Now that everyone's back. And,” he adds with a grin, “quiet just isn't going to work for what I have in mind.”

Well. This is new. A little embarrassing. But very appealing. And then I think of it. The perfect place.

**Simon**

I don't know where he's taking me, but we can't get there fast enough. The warmth of his hand in mine is driving me crazy. The memory of his face, eyes closed, mouth open, hair sweaty, as he played the violin. Just the memory makes my mouth go dry. We finally get to a fancy little building on the upper west side, and the door is opened grandly by a doorman in a navy blue, gold-trimmed uniform. I have to stifle giggle when he nods deferentially at Baz and calls him Mr. Pitch.

I have no patience to wait for the elevator. I drag Baz up the stairs instead, three at a time. Pausing on every landing to push him against the wall and kiss him. By the time we get to the front door, his hair is as messy (and his breathing as uneven) as mine.

 **Baz**  

It's been almost a month since people started getting back from break. So it's been a while since Simon and I had any real privacy. I’m getting more and more breathless as we approach Fi’s apartment.

I push Simon against the closed door and press myself to him the moment we get into the flat. Until now I've been holding back, constrained by a sense of decorum I can't quite shake no matter how much I try. But as soon as we're alone, desire shoots through me with an intensity I can't recall ever feeling about anyone. Anything. Ever.

Now it’s Simon turn to look anxious, and my turn to whine in protest as he pushes against my chest until I move back.

“Baz,” he whispers, looking around. “How do you know they're not home?”

“Who?” I ask, confused. “I've already told you, Fiona's in London.”

“Yeah, but,” he protests, keeping his elbow locked between us, “didn't you say this was her fiancées apartment? Or something?”

“Fiancée,” I snort. “Make sure that when you meet Fiona, you don't suggest she might stoop to anything as conventional as marriage. She thinks she's some sort of free spirit punk.”

Now Simon looks confused. “But you definitely said something French,” he insists, looking stubborn. I try to think back to what I could've said.

“Oh,” I realize, and laugh. “Pied-à-terre. This is an apartment Fiona keeps for when she visits. Which is like once every three years.”

Simon just stares at me. I shouldn't have laughed. I must sound like an asshole. I cringe as I look at the flat through his eyes. I realize with a jolt what a grotesque extravagance it is. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve brought him here. It seemed so perfect in the moment, but-

Then Simon crashes into me, hands pulling at the buttons of my coat. I sigh with relief, and then with something else, as we undress each other in alternating spurts of frenzied speed and torturous, teasing slowness.

**Simon**

We're finally out of our clothes and in a bed. I still have no idea what the fuck this place is, but I don't really care. For now, it's ours. That's all that matters.

Baz slides his hand up along my side and I gasp. He smiles. I smile back and then lunge, catching his shoulders in my hands and his lip between my teeth. I pull him carefully down onto me, and reach my hands back, back, over his shoulders, to his spine. I trail them down, slowly, feel Baz vibrating against me. I touch him lightly, just fingertips and fingernails, and he whimpers and collapses onto me.

I have a new favorite hobby, which is seeing how quickly I can get Baz to lose control. How loud I can get him to be.

I mean, I'm always loud. In more or less every situation. And he's always controlled. In more or less every situation. Especially now that everyone else is back in the dorm.

I’ve seen what it does to him when he makes me moan. And I know what his sighs and gasps do to me, even the quiet ones. But there's something about the way he sounds when he just can't help himself that's like a direct line to some primal part of my limbic brain that I never knew about before.

His toes are one of my greatest triumphs so far. I discovered he has very sensitive feet. His feet are unreasonably sexy. Elegant, elongated. His toes in particular. The first time I licked his big toe, he whimpered. It was amazing. So then I sucked on it. And he made this sound, like a strangled sighing groan, so loud that I could feel it reverberate through the mattress. That was it. I became addicted to coaxing that sound from him any way I can.

His breath is coming fast and shallow now, and I wonder how long I can draw this out. I shift against his body so that he rests heavily against my hip, and gently explore everything I can reach. He moans deep in his throat and moves against me.

I trail one hand down his spine to where his sweat has started to pool just below the small of his back, in that magical spot where it changes and splits, until my fingers are wet with it. I move my other hand slowly down below the tight plane of his stomach to the soft skin below it. He moans loudly (so loudly) as my fingers brush against him.

I move my lips along his body until they reach the sensitive groove along his hips, and his fingers dig into the sheets as he involuntarily pushes against me.

He twitches as I lick at beads of moisture as they form, and he starts panting in earnest. I keep licking, around and along and over. I turn us slightly so that I can slide my wet fingers down his back, my hands and mouth squeezing and sucking in a rhythm made up of him, only him. He's biting his lip and moaning my name. I feel a rush of power and love and lust as I feel him starting to lose control.

Hearing his gasps change in pitch and intensity as my fingers continue their journey down and into him nearly pushes me over the edge. And he hasn’t even fucking touched me yet. Not that I've given him much of a chance. It's been too fun seeing what I can do to him.

But he's pushing me off him and onto my back now, licking and biting and sucking along my skin until I'm gasping out his name desperately and he finally slips himself down and over and around me and I'm lost in the endless pleasure of his perfect ass.

He moves up and down on me, hard and fast, fusing us in a movement that I wish would never end, even as I become unable to bear it for another instant before I explode inside him and he comes above me and we lie, panting and sticky and attached and in love, and I just keep saying “mine, mine, mine,” and he says “fuck I fucking love you” and I'm sighing and he's laughing and I know with sudden clarity why I survived everything. Why I've kept going all this time. For him. For this. For us.

**Baz**

We stay inside all weekend, fucking and laughing and eating and talking, and fucking again. And again. And again. I play my violin for him and he tells me stories and we eat take-out on the floor and let the days and nights become indistinguishable. When we sleep, there are no dreams and when we wake there are no fears. It's frenzy and peace and hunger and fullness. It's everything.

On Monday morning I wake up feeling whole. Feeling a buzzing stillness, like the surface of a deep pool where the water trades oxygen with the air. I feel ready, certain, alive. Alive and in love and sure, in a world that has shifted and locked in place. A world in which I've found my place. With Simon. Who holds my hand and smiles at no-one and nothing but me in the electric winter air we share between us as we walk. Home. Wherever we find ourselves. Wherever we are. We're home.


	27. February 14th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winnie the Pooh is always hungry. Like Simon. Like Simon, his loud tummy always gives him away. And like Simon, he is deeply beloved by his friends. And loves them back every bit as much. Nevertheless, he really would like some honey, please.

_February 14th_

**Baz**

He is so slow sometimes, it's infuriating. Of course, he's also so cute and so true at all times that I forgive him for just about everything else. But at this point, it is getting ridiculous. Agatha is more his friend than mine. I don't even want to go to the fucking party.

“Simon,” I groan, truly irritated now. “You're still not ready?! We're going to be late, even by Wellebelove standards.”

“Late?” Simon looks up from the game he's playing on his phone. “I'm not going to the party, Baz.”

I blink. “What are you talking about?” I demand, replaying our conversation about the party from last week and finding no flaws in my reasoning. “I asked you last week about going, and you said yes.”

(I'm paraphrasing for the sake of brevity. What he’d actually said was more along the lines of “um, yeah, ok. If you want. I mean, sure, Baz. Yeah. Ok.” I, on the other hand, had been short and to the point: “Wellebelove’s party on Valentine's Day? Your call, Si.”)

He mumbles “I thought you meant. Um, you. I thought you meant just you. I never said I was going.”

This is idiotic even by Snow standards. “I'm not bloody well going to a Valentines Day party without you, Si.” I look at him incredulously. Then nervously. He's kidding me, right?

He just shrugs, not looking at me. “Sorry, Baz, I just. I feel weird going to Aggie's. I, I don't know. I figured. I mean, I assumed. Well, that you knew.”

“How did you figure that? Seeing as how I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about,” I ask, perhaps more aggressively than is strictly necessary. But we always fight when we talk. Other couples have their song. We have our snark.

He just shrugs. Of course.

If I want words, I should probably use my own and ask. So I do. “Simon. Please explain. With words. Why would I go there without you?”

By the end of the sentence, I lose my nerve (I am so weak), and leave out the most important words. On Valentine's Day. How could he not expect us to do something together tonight? I mean, we're together, right? We're definitely fucking. But it's more than that. I think. I hope. How can I even doubt this? But how can he not have understood me?

“I dunno,” he says, his voice small. I look up sharply. His eyes are still trained on the tiny screen of his phone, but his hands are strangely still. “I mean, because of. Because of what. What happened last time. At. Um. Aggie’s.”

The sound of his voice stops me from delivering any of the half dozen biting, defensive, sarcastic comments that spring to mind. I take a deep breath, and sit next to him. I force myself not to panic. He's not rejecting me on Valentine's Day. He wouldn't. He's not. Something else is going on.

“Si?” I ask, taking his phone out of his hand and putting it on the table next to him. “I'm trying not to freak out here. But. It's Valentines Day. And I feel like you're telling me you don't want to go out with me. And this sentence is probably as far as I'm going to manage to get in the whole trying-not-to-freak-out thing. So meet me halfway here. What the fuck is going on?”

He still isn't looking at me, so I can't tell for sure, but. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes look wet. My heart clenches painfully as he mumbles, “Baz. I ruined her last party. I. I mean, it was my. Penny broke up with her. I mean. Not exactly because of me. But kind of? I can't ruin everything again.”

I wish I didn't understand what he’s talking about. But I do. And I'm glad I reigned in the paranoia enough to make it this far in the conversation without making it worse. I hope.

I put my hand on his cheek (definitely tears), and turn his face so he has to look at me. I can't decide whether to scream at him for being so self-defeatingly stupid, or wipe away his tears and promise it will all be ok. So I compromise.

“Simon, love, no one thinks that. None of what happened on New Years was your fault. And Penny having the good sense to dump Agatha is certainly not your fault. What would even put that idea in your head?”

**Simon**

Is he kidding? Does he really not know that she blames me? I’m sure Penny does too. Actually, I’m pretty sure Baz does. Why else is he so mad? I ruin things. Even if they’re nice enough to not totally avoid me, I’m perfectly aware of the fact that they’re all angry with me. And it’s not fair for Baz to pretend he doesn’t know that. That he doesn’t feel it himself.

“Um. Agatha?” I snap at him. I try not to growl. “Agatha put that idea in my head, ok? So fuck off. You don't always fucking know everything.”

I feel myself heating up. I shouldn't be this angry. If I want to end this conversation before it spins out of control, I need to be calm. Focused. Unfortunately, those are not my strong suits.

“And yes,” I add preemptively. “I'm certain of it. She was really angry. It wasn't subtle.”

Actually, she was _completely fed up with me and all my drama_. That’s how she put it. She pointed out that I make everything about me. She said she just wants to be able to live her life, without all the theatrics. So I should only hang out with her if I can do it without trailing melodrama in my wake.

I wince at the memory. The memory of feeling so small. So wrong. Feeling the burning shame of sitting next to her as she put me in my place.

I hate that feeling, of being out of line. I hate it that when I go places, everyone stares. I hate it that without ever wanting to, I somehow make everything about me.

I see Baz’s eyes turn icy. He's furious. My heart sinks. Why am I yelling at Baz? This shouldn't be his problem. _I_ shouldn't be his problem. I should stop being such a fucking problem all the time before I lose everyone.

“I'm sorry,” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“Why are you fucking apologizing?” he asks vehemently.

There’s fury in his voice, his face. I find myself whispering.

“Please, Baz, don't.” Apparently, I’m desperate enough to skip directly to begging. I can't take this, again. About this. Again. From him, too. “Don’t be mad, too. Please. I can’t." 

“Simon,” he says. His voice doesn’t match his face. His voice is strangely gentle, a caress. He reaches out his hand to touch my face, and something inside of me stills. I love the feeling of his fingers on my skin.

“Simon," he repeats. "No one’s mad at you. Well, Agatha is, apparently. But that's because she's a narcissistic prick.”

I can't help smiling at the description. But then I remember that he's wrong. She’s actually being pretty reasonable. Even I know it. 

Now Baz’s face softens, until his eyes match the broken warmth in his voice as he speaks again.

“Simon, love,” he says, and stops. I have to close my eyes. Does he know what those two words do to me? From his mouth, in that order? “I’m not angry.”

My eyes open. I feel my own anger taking over my tongue again. “That’s a fucking lie, Baz. You’re obviously angry.”

He shakes his head, looking frustrated. My hands curl into fists. He puffs out a breath. He's clearly reaching his limit with me. Then he starts talking again.

“Si, you're wrong,” he says.

Or that's what I hear. But then I quickly realize that's not what he said at all. I try to quiet my internal voice so I can hear his.

“Si, you’re right.”

That’s what he actually says.

“I’m angry. But I’m not angry at you. I’m angry about what happened. I’m angry at Agatha for making you feel like it’s somehow all your fault all the time.”

I keep very still, trying to make sense out of his words as he keeps speaking. “You're the one that was hurting. Not fucking Agatha. That party was horrible, and I hated it, but it's because I hate seeing you hurt.”

He's angry. But he's not angry at me. He's not angry at me, he's angry for me. He’s also still talking.

“That’s what made it so bad. And right now, I hate Agatha for being such an asshole.”

He’s angry for me. I’ve wanted someone to be angry for me for so long, it’s become a thing I don’t think about. I still want it.

But I don't want to break another thing. Make Baz angry with Agatha now. I start to say something along those lines, that I don't want to be the cause of him losing his friendship with Agatha. This time, Baz’s face opens and he just laughs.

“Simon, now you're just being idiotic. Of course I hate Agatha. I hate everyone.”

He puts an arm around me, and he loves me. He hates everyone, but he loves me. He's warm and steady at my side. And it's too much. It’s also nice. I'm not the only one who's too much.

I concentrate on the feeling of his body next to mine. The beat of his heart, the whisper of his breath, the feel of his fingers through my shirt. I feel the tension drain out of me. I let the comfort take its place.

The comfort of being held, and of being loved. Being the cause of anger and hatred. The cause, but not the object. Being loved enough to be protected. It's terrifying to let myself hope for that. To imagine a life where that's how someone feels about me.

And then I just want this part to be over. I want to banish the heaviness. I want to feel light. I want to think about this, but not now.

So I take a breath and push his arm and roll my eyes.

“Yeah, Baz, you're a total hater. That's why the violin teacher called me to thank me twenty times for bringing you to meet her class. That's why Ebb thinks you're _the only young man with a lick of manners_ ,” I drop into Ebb's voice at this last part, and Baz laughs again.

I could live without ever eating another cranberry muffin, if it meant getting to hear that laugh. And it's working. I feel less overwhelmed. So I'm grateful when he plays along.

“Please, Si,” he says, holding his hand to his chest in a mime of wounded dignity. “Never doubt my capacity to hate.”

I put my hand over his. And he grins at me and I feel happier than I've any right to feel. Maybe it's because he's broken too. But I feel at home in his world. Like I live here too.

 **Baz**  

I was honestly dreading this party, so suddenly having the evening free and alone with Simon is like fate handing me a present. (Fate still fucking owes me, though. She's not getting off that easy.)

Which reminds me. I go into our room. When I get back, I hand the gift in my hands to Simon, who's trying very hard not to look expectant.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say. Its only a lifetime of learning to keep still that stops me from fidgeting and pacing in anxiety as soon as the book is in his hands.

Figuring out what to get Simon for Valentine's Day was a complex process. Way harder than any of my assignments for classes. And it's about to be graded.

For the past week, I've wavered between thinking it can't be any worse than the Christmas muffins, and thinking it can't be any better than the Christmas muffins. It definitely won't be worse than the phone debacle. My bar is pretty low these days.

His eyes light up when I place the wrapped gift in his hands. By now, I know it's not an act. The sheer sincerity of his happiness when I do something that makes him happy threatens to overwhelm me. It's almost painful to withstand that much trust and hope. Especially when I know how badly misplaced it is.

But, apparently, I am capable of change. The events that transpire around me are able to touch me now, reshape me. Not dramatically, not yet. It's not like I'm going to be dancing barefoot in the springtime grass anytime soon. But it's enough so that I'm able to face the burning heat of Simon, and not wither.

A warmth settles deep in my stomach as I watch him carefully open the wrapping paper. I realize with surprise that I'm not actually worried about how he'll react. I know he'll react like Simon. I know I love everything about Simon. The knowledge feels good, rather than suffocating. I almost start laughing at the unlikely joy of it.

I sit next to him when he finally manages to extricate the book gently from the paper. The book is the perfect kind of old. The cover is made of cloth and paper that have softened with thousands of readings, but is in no danger of ever falling off. The paper of the book itself is thick. The pages with pictures have a translucent sheet overlaid to protect them.

Inside the front cover is a cream and gold nameplate. My mother’s. But with my name, in sapphire ink. I remember when she gave me the book. I remember the weight of it. I remember the solemn thrill of affixing the nameplate. I remember the careful focus as I formed the letters of my full name. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I was three.

Simon looks at me, and smiles. I stop breathing. He kisses me, sweetly. The certainty of his love is an ocean of peace. I settle on its shore. He takes my hand in his, leans back, and rests his head on my chest as he opens to the first page.

I remember the lilt of my mother’s voice, reading me the book for the first time. The memory rests just above and behind Simon, as he reads to me. Both voices fill my ears.

“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump bump bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he thinks that perhaps there isn't. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh.”

**Simon**

Baz lets me read to him as we sit like that. A warm golden feeling wraps around us, like Pooh’s sticky obsession. I know that it won't long before I'm betrayed by my own rumbly tummy, and I want to give Baz his present before that happens. So I only read the first part, before I make myself get up and unstick myself from Baz’s warm presence.

I'm struck with an inspiration, and take an extra minute in our room to quickly write on the paper that wraps the gift I still haven't quite decided to give him.

I give it to him.

His eyes crinkle in that way I love as he reads the newly scribbled note:

_To Him:_

_Hand in hand we come_  
_Christopher Robin and I  
To lay this book in your lap._

 _Say you're surprised?_  
_Say you like it?_  
_Say it's just what you wanted?_

_Because it's yours –  
  Because we love you._

After which I added a few extra words of my own:  
  
_Because we match._  
_For better or worse._  
 _For ever and ever._  
_No matter what. I promise._

I'm still standing. He looks up at me after he reads it, his eyes complicated. I can't help biting my lip and twisting my fingers, just a little.

Everything becomes scary if anything matters. And with Baz, it all matters. Every fucking detail matters so much that I think I'll catch fire with the force of it.

His eyes notice my teeth as they worry my bottom lip, and his complicated expression grows sweet. He traces his fingers quickly along my jaw, light as a breath. He looks like he's going to say something, but then he doesn't. He leans up just enough to run his lips across mine, nose sliding along my own.

Then he pulls back, curious again. He pulls me down with him as leans back. His long slender fingers make quick but neat work of the wrapping, leaving the note unmolested. I close my eyes as he opens the book, unable to watch as he looks. Finally the stillness gets to me, and I open my eyes.

He manages to look smug and shy at the same time. He really ought to teach a master class in contradictory facial expressions. It's like his face is controlled by two different people, one filled with wonder and the other filled with barbs.

As I watch, the wonder wins. It still feels like a fucking privilege just to see his face when his eyebrows rise and fall in unison. When symmetry trumps irony.

I smile a little when he flips quickly through the pages of the sketchbook that aren't covered in drawings of him. Part of me is still aching to snatch the whole thing back. I've never shown anyone my drawings before. The closest I've ever come is when Ebb and I plan out cakes.

He gets stuck on one page, and I move a little closer to see which one it is. I'm surprised. I thought he'd like the one where he's standing at the top of that secret staircase, waiting for me. A king in disguise, walking among his subjects.

But the one he's staring at is one of him with wild hair and a vulnerable softness around his mouth and eyes. Another contradictory face, disappointment mixed with hope and laughter. That one is from the time I convinced him not to go back out to the kitchen to get the spoons. The memory raises a pleasant flush across my body.

I run my fingers over his, where they hold the book carefully along the margins. Most of the drawings are charcoal, and he's careful not to smudge them. He looks up at me when he gets to the end. I can see the struggle in his eyes.

I want to tell him it's ok to be sharp. Sarcastic, mocking, hidden. I don't need him to be someone else. I don't want him to be someone else. I want him to be him, whichever him he is. I guess confused is ok too. So I smile at him a little, waiting for his face to decide what it wants to do.

I don't complain when the answer is none of the above. Instead, he just leans towards me. My eyes close in anticipation of a kiss that never comes. Instead, he keeps leaning until his mouth is next to my ear and whispers,

“I find myself inexplicably in the mood for ice cream.” I laugh and pull back and his smile is my favorite thing in the world. I stand, hand out to help him up.

“You know how much I hate ice cream, but I'll go with you if you insist.” I discover how hard it is to whine convincingly while smiling.

He rolls his eyes and smiles as he uses my arm to pull me down on top of him instead of pulling himself up to standing.

“In that case,” he breathes, “there's really no reason to get up.” And as his arms wrap around me and my mouth meets his, I have no choice but to agree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumping down the stairs is the first paragraph of Winnie the Pooh. Simon's note is a close paraphrase of the dedication in the original Winnie the Pooh, though "To Her" has been changed to "To Him"
> 
> I borrowed the idea of a master class in contradictory facial expressions from one of my all time favorite snowbaz fics by one of my all time favorite snowbaz writers: [**If Music Be the Food of Love**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5896324) by [**Visinata**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata)


	28. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring. New love. Old friends. Sunshine, warmth. Everything comes alive. Old becomes new and new becomes old and nightmares rise up to mix with waking life. 
> 
> You know what? Fuck spring.

**Simon**

It’s been an unusually warm spring. It’s been an unusual spring, full stop, as Baz would say. For one thing, I’ve convinced Baz to wear shorts! That was a battle for the ages, but I am happy to say that I emerged triumphant. Which means that when we study outside I get to run my hand along the dark hair that covers his pale skin.

Now that it’s warm, we spend most of our time outside, along with basically everyone else. Agatha and Penny usually find us in time for the four of us to monopolize our favorite corner. We sit in the grass, surrounded by paper and laptops. Problem sets. Readings for class. Weekly essays.

Everything I do is next to Baz; sitting or standing or lying next to him on the grass. Alone in a sea of similarly occupied people. All of us working in the sunshine. Interrupting our work at regular intervals. Usually to kiss the person beside us.

I love kissing Baz outside. I love things that aren’t secrets. I love the determined way he puts on sunscreen to ward off his nemesis, the sun. I love the way his eyes glow grey in the light. I love the way his eyes look when he looks up at me and puts his book down. I love it when he runs his hand along my side, then under the edge of my t-shirt where it rides up a little when I sit like this. Lying down, sideways. Propped up on one elbow. Tracing my other hand along his body. I love being outside because of all the things we can’t do outside, too. Things that I have to save for later.

Because now, later is always so soon. I love the way that now is happy because I know that later will be good. Later will involve warm bodies under cool sheets behind the locked door of our room. Which is why we can never get any studying done in our room anymore, if we’re both there. So outside is perfect. Everything is basically perfect.

 

 **Baz**  

I’m trying to allow myself to change. To become the type of person who kisses the boy I love outside. In the sunshine, in the grass. Wearing shorts in NYC. A person who smiles and laughs almost easily. To be the kind of person who is happy.

It scares me. It thrills me. I never used to believe in a future with the power to actually be better. How can the future be different if I’m never allowed to change?

Change is a form of weakness. Strength means remaining true to myself. Remaining apart from the world; remaining above it. Only weakness leads to change. Change is betrayal. Betrayal of my family's superiority. Betrayal of my birthright.

I tried to talk about it with Penny a couple of months ago. Talking to Penny is an experience. It’s like, you better have done all your reading beforehand, because she is going to ask you questions and they are going to be tough ones. Every conversation with her is a cross examination. But it’s worth it. There’s no better way to figure something out. 

But this time, Penny’s response wasn’t educated or precise. It was more like... jealousy. She says that everyone’s dream is to change, but that almost no one can really do it. She thought I was being an asshole.

It took a while to figure the whole thing out, because she couldn’t imagine that what I actually felt was shame. And I couldn’t imagine that change could make anyone proud. 

Somehow, her reaction (so visceral, so annoyed, so not-thoughtful) was exactly what I needed. It was like a shell around me that had been slowly cracking finally fell away and I could breathe. I could see. I thought I hated happy. But now I don’t plan to waste another second of my life being unhappy. 

That’s the biggest change. Life always felt like an infinitely long chain tying me to dread and anger. Like an endless path under a beating sun that I had no choice but to walk, step after step after fucking step.

Now, life feels like grass and Simon’s lips. The future feels like the warm, proud shiver of joy I still get when Simon smiles and I know it’s because of me. It’s like we all exist inside one of those wooden 3D puzzles, and whatever god is playing with us finally shifted it so the edges align and life pops into view.

I like being young. I like being strong. I like being happy. I like being in love. I like knowing that my future is stretched out before me. Now that it’s a future with Simon, I want it to be as long as possible. I want to be fucking immortal.

I should’ve known the universe wasn’t going to let me get away with this. That Malcolm will not be disobeyed, even in the quiet of my own mind, without the punishment that always follows. I should have known that anyone who made the mistake of loving me would be punished for it, too.

 

_March 16. Second day of spring break._

**Simon**  

Campus is emptier today. Most people have already left for break. The grass is unoccupied, leaving plenty of room for those of us still here to play soccer. And I’m left with plenty of time to enjoy being home (home!) without the usual pile of schoolwork to do.

I still have to work in the bakery, but that’s part of being home too. And the bakery is closed today, so Baz and I have the whole afternoon to ourselves. We haven’t really had that since Christmas break. So I’m excited as I head back to our room.

Baz spent the morning in the music building while I was busy getting sweaty and muddy. He’ll be getting back in an hour, and I want to shower and change so I can grab him the instant he walks through the door. Not that he even minds muddy and sweaty and smelly anymore. But I’m pretty sure he prefers clean. 

When I walk into the suite, there’s a cranberry muffin on the table, sitting on a little plate with a napkin next to it. I smile at it. When did Baz manage to get me a muffin? He must have bought it secretly yesterday. He must have snuck back in after we left, so I’d find it when I got home, hungry from running after a ball all morning. I’m going to shower and change first, though, even before I eat the muffin. 

Not eating the muffin immediately. That’s how I know my life is truly different. I don’t feel terror about food anymore. I don’t feel like I need to eat everything immediately, while I have the chance.

These days, I feel confident in the knowledge that there will be a future. There will be a near future and a far future. And those futures will be ok. In the future, whether it’s 5 minutes or 5 years from now, I’ll have enough to eat. The present has become calm in the face of this benign new future.

I’ve finally discovered what safety feels like. Now that I feel it, I realize I never had it, even all those times I thought I felt safe. That wasn’t what safe feels like. This is. 

I’m thinking about saving the muffin to share with Baz, maybe getting him a white chocolate mocha or something equally vile (he loves vile, when it comes to coffee) to have with it, as I open the door to our room. I drop my keys and bag and am about to pull off my dirty clothes when I freeze. 

Someone’s in my bed. It can’t be. Fuck. I’m still asleep. I’m having the nightmare again. I haven’t had it in a month or more. Someone’s in my bed and he looks up as the door closes behind me. I feel the sick terror come over me, as the someone in my bed leers at me with my father’s face.

And now he’s standing and walking toward me and I am frozen in place with fear. Please, I have to wake up. Now. Wake up, wake up. How do I usually wake up? Do I have to scream? Will that end this fucking nightmare?

And now he’s here, right here, so close. He’s going to grab me, and I’m going to scream.

But he doesn’t. He stops about a foot away and smiles at me smugly and says, “Hi, Simon. I brought you a muffin. You like the cranberry ones, right?”

I’m not dreaming. This is real. He’s here, in my room. As if I conjured him myself with my nightmares. As if I somehow turned my nightmares into premonitions, and here he is and it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fucking fault and I think I’m going to throw up but I know that is a mistake but I might pass out but that would definitely be a mistake and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. 

He’s here. He’s in my room. It’s my fault. Fuck.


	29. March 16, 11:30 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Baz gets home, Simon and Davy are gone. Baz doesn't know what to think. And then he does.

March 16th, 11:30 am

**Baz**

I'm running late, and I feel bad about it. Not that Simon will care. I'm the uptight one in this relationship, I know that. But I don't like being late. And I don't want Simon to think I forgot. But he won't think that. And I'm almost home.

Home. The idea of this tiny stuffy dorm being home is absurd. But it feels more like home than my family's maisonette overlooking the Met ever did.

I'm smiling as I walk in the door. It's my turn to decide what we're doing today, and we have the whole afternoon. I've decided we're going to the zoo, but he doesn't know that yet. We're going to the zoo because it is a ridiculous place to go, and Simon enjoys ridiculous. In fact, he loves the giraffes. Nothing is more ridiculous than a giraffe. Except maybe a rhinoceros. I like the lions. Of course. He likes the sea lions. Also of course.

My contemplation of Simon watching the sea lions is interrupted by the absence of Simon himself when I walk in. I feel briefly annoyed, but I try to stamp the feeling out as quickly as I can. Especially since I'm the one who's late.

There's a cranberry muffin sitting primly on a plate on the table. That's odd. Maybe he got back late too, maybe he's showering. But since when does he put muffins on plates? And if he had any muffins he would've eaten them this morning.

I guess it could be someone else's muffin. Simon’s not the only person in the world who likes cranberry muffins, I tell myself. But it makes me uneasy.

I walk into our room, and the uneasiness grows. Something’s off. It takes me a minute to figure it out. Normally Simon's muddy sneakers would be irritatingly piled at the doorway. His dirty clothes would be on his unmade bed. Normally I’d be feeling annoyed and superior and exasperated and fond right about now. Not scared. Which is how I actually feel.

Scared. So fucking irrational. I thought I was past this. Maybe he hasn't even gotten back from his game yet? But I walked by the field where he plays on my way, and there was no game going on.

Then I see that Simon's bag is here, slung in the corner. So he must have gotten home. But nothing else is here. Something's wrong. I turn to run out and find him.

I stop myself, and turn back. I stand in the doorway of our room, paralyzed by indecision. What's the matter with me? This is not me. I'm not impulsive. I'm overreacting.

Nothing's wrong. It's just Simon. Flaky, goofy Simon. It's just Simon and I'm going to be so pissed when he wanders back in, muddy and silly with some story about running off to help an old lady cross the street.

I shouldn't run out looking for him like an obsessed, possessive boyfriend. I'm just being my old paranoid self, and he's going to laugh at me and then kiss me and all my annoyance will melt away. Because all that ever matters is him. The ongoing impossible miracle if him in my life. In my arms.

I text him, and a second later I hear a beep from his bag. That is not good. Feeling a little bad for invading his privacy (but only a little), I reach into his bag. His phone is there. And his wallet. And his keys. That’s it. Something bad happened to him.

My fear thickens. I fight it. This is Simon were talking about. Maybe he heard about a spontaneous rally for animal rights and ran to lead it without remembering his bag. And without changing out of his undoubtedly smelly clothes. And still wearing his muddy sneakers.

Fuck. I don't know what to do.

I text Agatha and Penny. I hear back from Agatha right away, saying she hasn't seen him, and she's pretty sure that Penny's in the lab. Which sounds like Penny.

Feeling like an idiot, I call Ebb. Maybe she needed help at the bakery? Maybe there was a run on banana chocolate chip loaf and she couldn't handle it alone? My weak attempt at humor is not working even in the privacy of my own mind.

The phone in the bakery keeps ringing and then I remember that the bakery is closed today. Hence the zoo. I'm starting to get really and truly panicked. Which is stupid. This is Simon were talking about. I try telling myself that again. It doesn't work. I keep trying.

He probably just wanted a kebab and forgot his wallet and they'll probably give him one anyway because he probably tutored their kid or their second cousin or something.

But I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Urgently wrong. I stand for a minute, undecided, and then finally grab Simon's phone. For once I'm glad he uses the same password for everything (even though I've told him a million times not to). There. Ebb’s cell phone number. I know I’m overreacting, but Ebb won't care. And I need someone to tell me that I'm being silly, that Simon's fine.

To my relief, she answers immediately. She doesn't sound surprised when I tell her it's me, on Simon's phone. And she doesn't tell me I'm worrying about nothing. She almost sounds like she's been expecting me to call and tell her that Simon's missing. Which is obviously not possible. Though Simon swears she knows things she couldn't possibly know. She says she's heading over, and that I should call her right away if I find him.

I'm too jumpy to stay inside. I start wandering the streets near campus. I have no idea where I'm going. I just need to keep moving.

New worries start to plague me. What if he's avoiding me? What if he's finally realized how much better he is than I am? What if he found someone else? What if someone else found him? What if they're somewhere right now? Kissing? Laughing? Holding hands? Eating pancakes?

Without actually meaning to, I find myself peering in the windows of every diner and restaurant on Broadway. I hate myself for being so possessive. I feel like a stalker. He's not cheating on me. But I have this terrible, hollow feeling in my stomach.

And then, I see him. And he is actually eating pancakes with another guy. A fucking handsome guy. With an old school movie star cleft in his chin. Older, definitely older. But still one of the more attractive men I've ever seen.

And now I'm angry. Seething. Furious. Not with Simon, who sits looking forlorn, moving food around his plate listlessly. I'm furious at the man sitting at the table with him. David Aster. Simon's father.

The look on Simon's face is gut wrenching. It's a look I've seen before. It's how he looks as his nightmares start, and again as they fade. The look that brackets the terror and anguish that come between.

It’s a look I've only ever seen on him when his eyes are closed. It's disturbing to see his waking face wearing this mask of shame and resignation and fear. It's not just his face, it's his whole body. Curved in on itself, shrunk somehow. Waiting for something bad to happen. Hoping to disappear first.

My anger is washed away by an intense hatred that kind of scares me. I hate the man who made Simon look like that. Who’s making him look like that right now. Who's probably only ever seen this version of Simon. Who thinks this is all Simon is. The Simon he created.

I have a brief but intense fantasy of running into the diner, grabbing Aster and smashing his head against the wall. Of hitting him again and again until there's nothing left of him.

It's scary to find that this feeling lives inside me somewhere, that there's a blood lust waiting to overtake me if I let it.

Which I won't do. Aside from the damage I'd cause to the innocent wall, and aside from the little matter of being charged with murder, I know I still can't do it. It has to be Simon who does it, not me. (And not literally, though I'd love to see that.) But he's not going to be alone.

I make up my mind quickly, and send the texts. Then I walk inside.

**Simon**

The sound of the door opening catches my attention briefly. And then my eyes snap back up. It's Baz. What is he doing here? How did he even know I was here?

I feel an involuntary wave of relief, seeing his face. But it's quickly replaced by panic. I don't want him to be here. I don't want him to be tainted by proximity to this toxic scene. I don't want him exposed to my father. I don't want my father to hurt him. I don't want him to see me like this.

I don't want him to see me like this.

He smiles lightly and swoops over to place a kiss on my cheek and settle into the seat next to mine. As if we'd planned this weeks ago. As if we always come to this diner to meet my father on Tuesday afternoons.

“Hi love, sorry I'm late,” he says. And I smile. Which gives me a nauseating feeling of vertigo. Smiles don't go with this Simon. Baz doesn't go with Davy. But here I am, smiling. And here Baz is, holding my hand. And here my father is, looking briefly flustered but recovering immediately. At least my father has no idea who Baz is. I feel the different Simons tentatively inching closer together.

“You must be Basilton Pitch,” my father says smoothly, in his deep politician’s voice. (I guess I was wrong. How does he know? How long has he been watching me? How is he doing it?) He reaches out his hand for Baz to shake as he says “I've heard so much about you. I admired your paper on interpreting science as literature. It was well argued.”

Baz lets go of my hand. My panic reignites. What if Baz likes him, like everyone else? What if after this farce of a meal we walk out together, the two of them chatting and planning to get together again soon?

I imagine walking back to our room. I imagine Baz looking at me the way my second grade teacher did. I imagine his sneer returning. I imagine him saying, like he used to, Really Simon, must you always be so melodramatic? You have no credibility when you constantly exaggerate.

I imagine Baz walking away from me, saying my father's not bad at all. That it's always been me. Lying, exaggerating.

But what actually happens is that Baz very deliberately places both his hands on the table in front of him, leaving my father’s suspended in midair. He leans in and says, in the same conversational tone,

“Ah yes. And you must be David Aster. I've heard quite a lot about you as well. So I'm sure you'll understand why I won’t shake your hand.”

I don't even have time to register my shock before Baz is leaning back again, holding my hand in both of his. I have no idea what just happened. But I feel something inside me loosening. A feeling like a hail of stones moving in reverse, gathering themselves up from off my back and flying into the air before they disappear. I feel Baz’s hand in mine.

Then I see my father smile and I am frozen again. That smile is usually the last thing I see before I go blank. But Baz’s hands are warm and steady over mine. And I'm still here.

Smiling his predator’s smile, my father says,

“Indeed. Well, that would be disappointing under normal circumstances. But I can forgive the immaturity, seeing as how you watched your mother die. After calling for her, wasn't it? I suppose that might leave you not quite up to the task of being civil to someone else's parents.”

I'm going to be sick. I've never hated my father more than I do in this moment. But Baz just smiles, equally menacing, flashing his teeth. And he says,

“As I can understand your incivility towards someone else's son, seeing as yours left you. So, now that we understand each other,”

He pauses and smiles again. I don't know what the fuck is going on. It's like the two of them are speaking some foreign language built on elongated syllables and razor sharp smiles.

Baz doesn't bother finishing his sentence. He just leans back, letting his long frame drape around me protectively, picks a french fry up off David's plate, and pops it in his mouth wordlessly. Smiling all the while.

 

_1 pm_

**Baz**

I feel Simon trembling beside me. I wrap myself around him, hoping he can hear what I'm saying even if I can't say it out loud. I don't know what possesses me, but I eat a fry off David's plate. It works. He blinks. I don't.

This going far better than I ever could have hoped. Aster’s already played his strongest card, two steps into the game. Amateur mistake. Arrogance can do that. Especially when someone’s grown lazy. It's been a long time since anyone challenged him. And I've trained with the best. It gives me a bitter satisfaction to know that my years of dueling with my father were good for something after all.

I also hadn't been sure if Simon would let me sit next to him, let me put my arms around him. It's been hard, before. He kind of disappears when he’s scared. And this is the worst kind of test possible.

But he's here, next to me. Letting me hold him. Trembling, but not blank. Watching everything. Still trying to protect other people instead of himself.

Not other people. Me. I felt his anger at his father for trying to hurt me, cracking through his fear. But I was prepared for Aster bringing that up. If he was going to use me against Simon, he was either going to flatter me or attack me. My mother’s murder was public enough, he could easily have found out details about it.

I was more concerned about what he would know about rehab. And the series of events (fine, _actions_ ) that led me there. The fact that he hasn't said anything about it confirms my suspicions that he is not in fact all that powerful. Powerful enough to torture his kid and get away with it. But not to be a genuine threat to us now that Simon's an adult. So the bet I took was right, and the rest should play out smoothly.

It would be enjoyable if it weren't for Simon's obvious terror. I focus my hatred into my smile and aim it across the table. This is an exorcism. We are going to banish this evil from Simon’s life once and for all. And then we're going to help him pick up the pieces and finally get to live the life he deserves. Surrounded by love and joy. Filled with meaning and free of fear.

Where is all this sentimental drivel coming from? It's more disturbing in some level than the violence that flashed through me earlier. And these thoughts are all right there, like they've been there for a long time. I guess I've thought about this more than I realized.

I think back to Ebb’s words on the phone. How she seemed to have anticipated this. I guess I've been waiting for it too. And now that it's happening, I'm fucking ready.

 

**Simon**

The bell jingles and the door opens again. Agatha walks in, sees us, and waves as she walks over to our table. What the fuck is going on?

She looks with distaste at the seat next to my father, then shifts it a few inches away from him, and sits down. Even sitting, she’s taller than he is. She glances at him and gives a little shudder and then turns to me and says,

“Oh my god, I totally thought Baz was kidding when he said your father was here. Is this really your father?”

Davy starts to say “I’m...” but we will never know what he thinks he is, because Agatha pins him with her most condescending glare (which is pretty fucking terrifying) and says, in an artificially sweet voice,

“Trust me, country mouse. If I was talking to you, you would know it.” Then she rolls her eyes and turns back to me and asks again, “so, is it really him?”

I feel Baz’s arm, strong around me. I see Agatha’s face, fierce and beautiful. I don’t look at Davy. I can’t actually speak, but I nod my head.

Agatha shifts her chair away another couple of inches, takes out her phone and taps at it. After a second, I can hear Penny’s voice coming thinly through the speaker.

“So?”

“It’s him,” Agatha confirms.

“Bloody fucking... I’ll be right there. Don’t let him leave.” Penny’s voice floats squeakily through the air and then cuts off. I finally risk a glance at my father. He looks angry. Furious. Terrifying. I shudder and look away.

Baz must feel it because he turns to me, his face softening with concern. No trace of the razor smile he’d worn a second ago. He leans his lips into my hair and whispers,

“Hang in there, Si. He can’t touch you.”

The familiar warmth of his breath on my ear revives me enough that I no longer think I’m about to pass out. I watch in confusion as Baz and Agatha chat about something. They seem completely oblivious to the man turning red with frustration right next to them.

It’s kind of hilarious, actually, and for a moment I can see him the way they do. Just a person. A human. Not a monster, not a god. Not terrifying. Not omnipotent. He shifts in his chair and Agatha stops pretending she doesn’t know he’s there.

“Don’t even think about leaving,” she says, without bothering to look at him. “Penny will skin me alive if she doesn’t get a shot at you. And Penny is terrifying when she’s angry, so you’re not going anywhere on my watch.”

The implications are not lost on Davy. He is trivial; Penny is the force to be feared.

My father’s face transforms. I’ve seen it in a lot of configurations over the years. Smiling charismatically, blushing modestly. Maliciously self-satisfied, sadistically hungry. And every kind of anger there is.

But I’ve never seen him look like this. Unsure. Annoyed. And. Maybe. Just a little bit. Scared. He’s scared of Penny? I stifle a giggle. Baz looks at me, worried, and then smiles a little at the look on my face. He looks like he might say something, but then the door opens. Again. By now, I’m expecting it to be a character out of my life. Penny, in particular.

But it’s not Penny. It’s Ebb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reverse hailstones as Baz speaks is the undoing of the way the second grade teacher's words buried Simon under a pile of rock.


	30. March 16, 2 p.m.

_March 16, 2 p.m._

**Penny**

I follow Baz’s directions to the White Chapel Diner. I arrive just in time to see Aggie burst out of the door and start running. Right into me. She nearly knocks me over. Her eyes look wild.

She pauses long enough to reach for me and say fiercely, “shit just got way the fuck too weird for me, Pens. You should leave too. Turn the fuck around while you still can. Come with me.”

I shake my head at her, confused. She glances at her empty, outstretched hand. It's an offering I cannot take. She just shrugs and starts running again.

Fucking Agatha. But she's a problem for later. On the other side of that door is the problem at hand. I slowly push it open.

I'm met with sound, but no light. The room buzzes with the nervous chattering sound of dozens of strangers thrust into unexpected darkness together. The lights must have just gone off, then.

Before my eyes have time to adjust, the lights flicker back on. Scattered applause erupts across the room, before the normal hum of New York brunch picks up as though it had never been interrupted.

At every table but one. Baz and Simon sit silently on one side of it. Across from them, a chair has been overturned and another pushed askew. A strange woman stands in front of the table, her back to me. The air shimmers slightly around her.

Simon and Baz are sitting very still, staring at her intently. I realize I'm staring, too.

The woman is tall. Improbably tall. Her long hair waves around her as if on an invisible breeze. She's wearing a diaphanous cloak that appears to move, though she's standing unnaturally still.

Then she speaks. The woman’s voice is so unlike her physical presence that it takes me a moment to realize it's emanating from her. And even longer to process the fact that the voice is familiar. Warm and wry. I feel a strange vertigo as I recognize it, and with it, the stranger standing with her back to me.

It's Ebb.

Later, when we walk out into the lukewarm light of the early spring sun, I will wonder what could have made her seem so strange indoors. She’s just Ebb. Odd, yes. But not more than usual. Solid as stone. Tall as a Nordic dancer. Thick hair floating in a frizz around her face, not unlike mine. The shimmering cloak is just a raincoat.

There's no mystery here. Just things I don't know yet. Like what the actual fuck is going on. (For example.) I sensibly ignore the hair that rises in bumps along my arms, as I turn my feet and follow the others in the direction being set by Ebb.

**Ebb**

The lights go out. The door to the diner opens and closes, opens and closes, opens and closes. Three times. The lights go back on. Davy is gone, and good riddance. That’s one door. Agatha seems to have left. Poor child. Can't blame her for running. And Penny apparently arrived. That's the second and third doors. Baz and Simon sit where they’ve been sitting, as if frozen.

I peer into their faces. Still painted over with shock. I suppose the time’s arrived for the Story to let herself be told. I best be getting on with it, then. Does no one a lick of good to ignore fate after she's knocked ever so politely on the blooming door. It's me who called her, so I'd best heed her.

Though honestly, three doors is a little heavy-handed, even for her. I smile at the image of the goddess rolling all six of her eyes at me. Never been one to stand on ceremony, not a one of us.

I turn back to the table, where Penny is now hovering uncertainly over Simon. At least that part went safe. I don’t want Penny near Davy any more than can be helped. She’s only just recovering as it is. I think she still doesn't know what he was doing at her house all those years ago.

“I think you'd best all come with me, then,” I say to the three before me. Gently and firmly as I can. They need some shepherding here, no good letting them sit too long with this. No point waiting on the bill, either.

“Jackie, we’ll settle this up later, yeah?” I call back into the kitchen. Jackie and I have known one another a ways. I knew when I heard from Baz that this was where I'd find them. I don’t know the hows or whys of it all yet, but the threads are showing themselves, ready for knitting up.

“Don't think on it, Ebb,” he calls back.

“Ta,” I call as I usher the children out in front of me. Can't help but think of them as children, looking lost like they do. True that they’re too old to be children. But they're too young on this earth to be anything else. We all are.

Still. Thank all the moons that Simon's no longer legally a child. It makes me go cold right through, to think of him with Davy all those years. I'd start crying if it weren't for the fact that I already was. No starting about it.

Simon moves to my side as we walk. Quietly. Whether it's to offer comfort or to seek it I can't say. Sometimes there's no line between the two.

I can sense him better up near like this. I can feel the force he draws from Baz, walking close on the other side of him. The way a flame does. Drawing substance, giving heat. Taking in a way that only adds, never divides. Until there's a conflagration that could destroy anything. Anything but the fire itself, kept safe in its own heart.

I feel them too, then. The others. Behind us, beside us, inside us. Tasha and Lucy and Nicky. Three sets broken by Davy.

I feel the weight of it suddenly. I ask for their forgiveness as I tell them silently that the fullness of the their stories might have to wait a bit longer. It sits too heavy on me.

It's the Story herself who hushes me. She'll be told, she whispers. She can hold herself back, she can let herself out. The pieces don't have to all come in order, all at once. She can start in the middle. By the end, she will be told.

It's strange with Nicky, though. He's not here, nor is he not-here. A superposition of life and death, like the doomed cat. Suspended forever in an eternal middle. Trapped in the uncertainty that hangs between space and time. Between speed and focus, between particle and wave, between distance and phase.

I know there are those who think there’s a clean line between physics and gods. They're the most lost of us all.

Heaven and earth, magic and science, spirit and matter. Here but for their grace go we. Gravity and light. Unity and profusion. We all start in the middle and end in the middle, and there's no shame in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize in re-reading this that it's probably even harder to follow what freaked Agatha out than it originally was, because I've moved all the Lucy/Tasha/Nicky parts out into its own thing. But, basically, the meddling ghosts and old sins have brought all the still-living players into the same room at the same time, and they could all feel it but not understand it, and Davy was fucking terrified when he realized Ebb was part of this and when she walked in she was full of her own raw power (strength, wisdom, empathy, insight, decency, fierce protectiveness, love, and whatever magic that all adds up to) and seemed like an avenging totem of the past. And the lights blew out (coincidence? ghosts?) and Davy ran and the diner was frozen by the icy presence of Lucy and Tasha. 
> 
> The thing Ebb is referring to when she says she's glad Penny didn't end up coming face to face with Davy, is that she'd already figured out that Davy was manipulating Penny back after Simon ran, that's why he burst into her house with the state militia. He knew she'd helped Simon run, and he was making sure she didn't find him or even start looking for him for a long long time. Ebb pieced it together after penny shows her the picture, which hasn't been described yet in this part of the narrative but has already happened. Actually I don't think I left it in any of the addendum fics either. I'll try to dig it up. 
> 
> The deal with Davy's power will get explained in another chapter. It's too long for the notes section. 
> 
> Agatha runs. Agatha had been the most manipulated by the ghosts, so she felt their presence in the diner most strongly. This is my thing with canon Agatha: I find her fascinating because she is a person pulled into magic against her will, despised by Penny and Baz for running, and by extension, despised by the reader, but. Aren't we all doing that all the time? Living our own lives and not taking on the monsters we know are all around us?


	31. March 16, 3 pm

_March 16, 3 pm_

**Baz**

We're a strangely formal procession as we follow Ebb. It's not far from the diner to the bakery, but it's a dramatic walk. Up to the edge of a cliff. Carefully navigating the stone stairs carved in its side, weaving through the flowers and trees. Ending by an unlikely pool of water fed by a shaded waterfall. Under a willow, where geese swim vigilantly and turn their sharp eyes at anyone who gets too close to their goslings.

It's a place I’d never seen before I met Simon, despite having lived just over the cliff for years. I was warned away from the park by my parents, just like every schoolmate of mine who traveled the well-worn path from Fieldston to Columbia. But the park is full of green and blue and yellow life. The real monsters prowl unnoticed up above.

Penny walks next to me. “What happened?” she whispers. And for once, I have no words.

I mean, it's not like a Simon thing. It's not that I don't remember. It's that I have no narrative to contain it. So I decide to go with facts, just on their own. Sparse, utilitarian words. Unadorned by allusions to cause and effect.

I briefly describe everything that happened up to when Ebb walked in. I tell her about being late to meet Simon this morning. I tell her about walking in to the dorm and finding that cranberry muffin, so out of place on a little plate of its own.

I tell her about panicking when I realized Simon wasn't there. And that his bag and phone and wallet still were. She knows already about how I called Agatha, and I fill in some of the other blanks. Calling Ebb on a hunch that I can't explain. Looking into the windows of every store and restaurant along Broadway. Seeing Simon.

I pause. I don't want to remember that moment. What it was like to see Simon like that, broken open, laid bare, in pain. I don't want to give voice to the violent impulse that shook through me, the desire to hurt the man who was doing this. Doing this to Simon.

I wanted to hurt Davy until he bled. Until he screamed and pleaded and cried. Until he sounded the way Simon sounds in the night. And then I would look him in the eye and kill him. The blood-rage starts filling me again.

I carry on speaking calmly, forcing my external demeanor to override the internal agitation. I continue to describe what happened next as well as I can. My walking over to the table, sitting down. The verbal sword fight, short and brutal. Simon trembling in my arms.

Agatha's entrance. The way Simon’s agency returned, weak but present in a single nod, after Agatha deflated the monster in the diner. How Simon nodded, and Agatha called Penny, and Ebb arrived.

I describe how the diner had gone suddenly silent at one point, the way it sometimes happens, when everyone in a crowded space stops to breathe at the same moment. How the opening door sounded, loud as a gunshot in that silence. Ebb walking in.

Only, at first I didn't realize it was Ebb. She looked so unlike herself. She looked angry, powerful. More than a little bit scary.

I tell Penny how the rest of the room started to hum again with conversation, except at our table. Where the stillness and silence had grown thicker. I describe the terrible beauty of Ebb’s smile when she said, in a voice that was alien and yet also her own. Said only one word. “Davy.”

And then suddenly the lights went out in the diner. Some people started screaming and some started laughing and we could hear scrabbling as chairs squeaked across the floor. When the lights turned back on, Davy and Agatha were gone, and Penny was there. I assume she can take it from there. And I stop talking.

She listens in her Penny way. One part complete attention and another part off calculating. When I'm done, she tells me about Agatha. How Agatha ran. I am filled with disgust, and I see it mirrored in Penny’s face.

Penny asks me questions I can't answer, about the silence and the dark. I don’t tell her the strangest part. The sudden cold that swept through just after the lights went out. Because I can't explain it. And I have no idea if anyone but me felt it.

I could feel Simon shiver, but he’d been shaking already. I couldn’t tell if this shiver was a reaction to the unnatural bone-deep cold or just the situation in its entirety. Agatha ran. Penny wasn’t there yet. I’m hesitant to ask Ebb. Plus, I’m no longer sure she’s the right person to offer a reality check.

I'm surprised when we reach the bakery, and then continue walking past it. Ebb must be taking us home. I've never been there. As far as I know, neither has Simon. I allow the more neutral unease of this change in protocol to replace the disquieting strangeness of the past hour. We reach a building, and go inside.

 

**Simon**

I should feel something. Nothing. That would be normal. Or something, like fear. Confusion. Anger. But I don’t. I feel something so strange that I’m having trouble feeling it.

Maybe I am feeling nothing. Maybe this is what it feels like when I feel nothing. Maybe I just don’t remember it after. Maybe, after, all I remember is the nothing, not the feeling of nothing. Well, if this is what I feel when I feel nothing, then it’s ok. I don’t need to be scared of it.

I feel calm but distant. And cold. I feel buffered by a cold kind of air that’s not quite wind. It’s like the cold is sentient somehow. Like the cold knows me and I know it too. I don’t have to speak or think or listen or try. I just am, and it’s enough.

Sometimes there are three tendrils of warmth that dance in and out of the cold. They’re nice too. I’d like to ask Ebb about them later.

 I don’t know how I’ll know when it’s later. It seems like we’re somewhere else. I don’t remember getting from there to here. From there. So there must have been a ‘there’ there.

There was a diner, there was Davy.

My heart stutters and I look around me. Baz is here. Baz was there, now he’s here, still with me. I reach for his hand and he holds it and I can breathe again.

I don’t want to answer any questions, even with my eyes. I bury my face in his arm and he holds me steady until I can look up again. To here. Here again. Here is Ebb. Ebb’s apartment.

It’s disconcerting. It’s green, everywhere. The walls are painted with grass and hills as though we’re on a movie set. A real tree grows in in the center of the space.

I feel like we've gone through the looking glass. Stepped past all the fur coats into a magical land just beyond. I feel better, surrounded by so much green. 

I collapse onto the couch. I don't realize I'm shaking until Baz wraps his long arms around me to hold me still. Penny sits on the other side of me and takes my hand.

Ebb’s voice echoes in from the other room. “I'll bring the tea then, yea? Surely I must have some biscuits about.”

I open my eyes. I feel the ghost of a smile shift its way across my face when I see Ebb. She’s walking in from the kitchen, balancing three paper towel rolls, a giant pot of tea and a plate. A plate of Oreo cookies.

I throw back my head and start to laugh. Of everything in this impossible home, Ebb with a plate of mass-produced supermarket cookies is what puts me over the edge.

I startle Baz, who looks up with concern at the strangled sound of my laugh. His worry doesn’t seem unreasonable, so I don’t pretend to reassure him. I do let him hold me closer to his side, though, as I slowly calm down.

Ebb gives me a soft smile and pours tea. There's the electric feeling in the air of a story about to be told. Penny reaches out, breaks an Oreo carefully open, and hands me the half with icing. Like she's done a thousand times before. And suddenly I feel safe.

I am surrounded by Baz on my left, Penny on my right, and Ebb before me. It's a feeling like grooves snapping into place. This is my family, this is my story, and this is my home. Ebb begins to speak.

 

**Tasha**

I watch them gathered around Ebb, as she tells our story. It's eerily reminiscent of how Fi and her friends would sit in a circle around Davy, early on, as he told them stories. Very different stories. Stories of power waiting to be unleashed.

In those early years, even I found him compelling. There's something magnetic about him that makes it impossible to look away. And he was beautiful, brilliant. He'd speak passionately about changing the world. About putting power in the hands of the oppressed. Using it to overturn the corrupt hierarchies of world politics. There would be no famine, no oppression, no injustice.

We were young. We thought we could make these things happen. We grew up fast. Some of us faster than others. And slowest of the lot was Lucy.

Once she’d seen the good in Davy, she could never un-see it. She would argue with Mitali, saying that Davy’s later instability was the exception, not the rule. That with medication he would return to the magnificent, inspiring boy she'd fallen in love with.

I remember all her arguments fot staying with him. She was clever and dogged and able to collect evidence and debate forcefully. She cited studies about how mental illness first manifests in late adolescence, recited lists of people who had battled their demons and gone on to achieve great things.

She loved him. He loved her. She wasn't going to abandon him just because he was sick. That would be as cruel as abandoning someone who had cancer or was in a car accident.

It was hard to refute, because she wasn't entirely wrong. In the abstract. But in our very non-abstract, particular reality, she was wrong. Tragically wrong. She believed in him up until the moment he murdered her.

I watch Basilton, as he holds Simon. He is in this circle with them. With Simon, with Penny, led by Ebb. There is no point in hoping to keep him out of the mess we all made. It is time for me to tell my truths.

I reach out (there is no space or time here, though Lucy has yet to discover the ease with which we can communicate between ourselves). I reach for Lucy, wake her fully. I find Nicky, and I nod. “Now.”

 

 

 


	32. March 16, 4 pm

_March 13 4 pm_

**Penny**

I've heard most of this story already, but from the looks on Simon’s and Baz’s faces, they haven't. Ebb tells them about Davy and his mini-cult. About Natasha and Fiona. About Mum. Simon stares at me, and I don't know what it means. I look away.

When Ebb starts talking about Nicky, her eyes fill and she has to pause. Simon moves to sit next to her, gently stroking her shoulder and handing her new paper towels when the old ones get saturated. It's a side of him I've never seen before. I have to swallow over the tightness in my own throat as I see Simon's eyes follow Ebb’s face, calm and loving and sad, until she stops crying.

When Ebb is steady again, she looks at Simon. She keeps her eyes fixed on his as she starts talking about Lucy. She talks about Lucy’s intelligence and courage. She talks about Lucy's family. About the brother who was kicked out of the house. About how Lucy left home too, ended up in their circle. And, finally, about Lucy falling in love with the young Davy. The handsome, inspiring, charismatic rebel who was going to change the world.

I can see the understanding widen Simon’s eyes as she tells this part of the story. I forget sometimes how smart he is. It took me a lot longer to put it together. Hell, it took Ebb a long time to put it together. I don't think Mum ever put it together, despite being Lucy’s best friend, despite having Simon in her house hundreds of times while we were in high school.

But Simon understands immediately.

Baz understands something, though it’s hard to know if he understands that Ebb is talking about Simon’s mum, or if he just understands that Simon needs him. Either way, he moves to kneel on the floor next to where Simon is sitting. He wraps his arms around Simon, and Simon rests his head on Baz’s.

I look away again. I don't know what to do with my eyes, my hands. With myself. The three of them are a frozen triptych of hurt and comfort. I have no place in it. I'm one of the people who hurt Simon. Even if I didn't mean to, even if I still don’t understand what happened. Even if I will spend the rest of my life trying to fix it. I still don't belong there, with Simon, with the people he loves.

**Baz**

I keep my arms around Simon as Ebb fills in the blanks around his birth. The ones she knows. No one knows what happened to Lucy after she moved to California, if she ever did. Presumably she was with Davy, since Simon ended up with him.

My fury builds as Ebb speaks. I’m angry with Lucy now, too. How could she have left Simon with that monster? Even if she died, even if she didn't just run away. Why didn't she leave earlier? Why didn't she make sure to give birth to Simon somewhere safer? It should have been easy. He would have been safer more or less anywhere but with Davy.

I glance over at Penny. I can't imagine what this is like for her, either. Discovering that her mum’s lost best friend is the mother of her own lost best friend. I want to reach out to her, but I don't want to move away from Simon. So when Ebb seems to have paused in her story, I look at Penny. Her head is turned away. I address her anyway and ask, not quite rhetorically,

“So why is Davy here now? What does he want?”

“I don't think he has reasons,” Penny answers, still not really looking at us. “I think he's just here for Simon. I think he'll keep turning up, just to-”

I feel Simon shudder, and interrupt her before she can end that sentence.

“So how do we stop him?” I ask. It's really the only question that matters. Unlike the questions I want to ask. Like, how do we destroy him? How do we punish him? How do we make things right? I already know the answers to those questions.

Or maybe I don't, because Penny finally looks directly at me

“We go to the police,” she says firmly. “I have a picture.”

Simon stares at Penny. Ebb seems to already know what Penny is talking about. I think about pretending that I do too. But it doesn't come naturally anymore. At least not here, with them.

“A picture?” I prompt. Penny blinks, nods. This time she speaks to Simon.

“I took a picture, Si. That day. The day we told Mum. When you... That day. I took a picture. I still have it.”

**Simon**

This isn't happening. This isn't happening. Please, please. This isn't happening.

**Baz**

I try to work out what's going on. I feel like I should be able to, but there's something my mind slips over every time I get close.

Penny knows me well enough by now to recognize when I don't think she's answered my questions. She gets up quietly, hands me her phone. I have to remove one arm from around Simon to take it from her. He looks down, away from Penny. From me, from the screen in my hand. 

I don't know what I'm looking at, and then I do. With a sickening jolt, the image resolves itself. The strange colors, the collapsed form. It's Simon. Younger. Hurt. Badly. Everything around me goes still. Noise recedes, until I'm left in a hum of white noise that burns through my senses and leaves me raw.

**Simon**

No. Don't look. Don't show him. Don't look. Don't know. Don't, don't, don't.

**Baz**

I can feel the shame flush warmly through Simon. He knows exactly what I'm looking at. And it fills him with shame, and I can't stand it. And I can't fix it. But I can at least try not to make it worse. So I swallow the scream building inside me. I hold my body still and keep my voice steady as I hand the phone back to Penny.

“What’s your plan, then?” I ask. Planning mode seems right for this. Penny stays with me.

“We get Davy arrested for a… for. Simon. They'll listen to Simon, now. And, we can show them.”

Simon still hasn't said anything. I can feel his heartbeat stuttering through my arms. I can see his face pale, feel his breathing grow shallow. I recognize the signs of building panic.

“No.” I shut down the idea immediately. There's no way that's the right way to handle this. There has to be another way. Other evidence to damn Davy. Not Simon.

And if not. Then we find a way to do this without the police. We are not putting Simon through that. It would hurt him far worse than it would help him. I’m surprised that Penny doesn’t seem to know that already. “No,” I repeat, and Penny finally steps back, sits back down.

I feel Simon sag a little in my arms. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish I knew what to say. I think about all the things he said, when we sat in the dark of the north woods after Mordelia's catastrophic birthday party. I think about trying to say some of them back to him, now. I don't.

I know it's not what he needs. I'm pretty sure he's completely overwhelmed right now. In which case, more words are not the way to help. I have to think of the best way to end this little séance and get Simon home.

**Simon**

This isn't happening. This isn't happening. Please. Please. This isn't happening. Please. This isn't happening.

**Penny**

We’re all stuck in an uncomfortable silence. My fault. I shouldn't have said anything about the picture. But I can't see another way. We can't let Davy linger in Simon's life this way. And Davy should be punished for what he did to Simon. But maybe now isn't the time.

I'm startled by the old-fashioned sound of a phone ringing. Like, actually ringing. Not playing a digital recording of a percussive alarm. Actually vibrating.

Everyone looks as shocked as I do. Even Ebb. Even as she stands up, walks to the far corner of the room. In all the strangeness of this unlikely apartment, in all the anxiety of this unlikely story, I'd failed to notice the old fashioned pay phone mounted in a shadow. It's the British version of an obsolete phone booth, red and boxy.

Ebb looks at it as if seeing a ghost. Surely she knew it was here? She stands resolutely, walks to the phone. Lifts the handle. Closes her eyes. And says one word.

“Nicky.”

**Nicky**

Jesus fuck, but it’s good to hear her voice.

I hear her all the time, my Ebeneza. But never through air and ears like this. Not in a fucklong pile of time. I forgive Natasha, just bit. It is fucking good to be talking to my twin.

“Ebb,” I reply. She knew immediately that it was me. Fucking beautiful, she is. I didn’t even have to speak. Though I suppose nostalgic sculptures don’t just ring out of the blue that often. But she knew, must have done. She brought it with her when she skipped the pond. Kept it with her all these years. Bless her fucking witch blood. She never needed Davy, any of it. She was already there. She couldn’t understand why I needed to catch up to her.

She’s crying now. I can hear it doubled, through the phone and through our connection.

“No crying now, Ebeneza. There’s no call for it. Or aren’t you happy to hear from your big brother?” That gets a wet chortle from her.

“By five minutes,” she teases. I would smile now too, if I still had a mouth that worked that way.

“Five and a half,” I correct automatically. This was the little scrap of words we used to pass back and forth between us like a ball, back when. Well, just back.

“Come home, Nicky,” I hear her say. I would close my eyes, if I had eyes that worked that way anymore.

“Hasn’t been a home to come to for a long time now, Ebb,” I remind her gently.

“Wherever we are is home, Nicky. It’s what we always promised.”

And true, we did. Back when I was fully human. Back before Davy.

“There’s nothing left of that Nicky, love,” I tell her. I tell her, knowing she knows.

“Then what is it I’m talking to?” she asks, trying not to know.

“You know, Ebb. You know what I am. I listen, you know. Every year. I listen when you talk to me on Christmas. And on our birthday. I know you know, little sister. Otherwise where’s the comfort for me in the fact that you’re still willing to think of me as your brother?”

“Don’t be trying to tell me my own mind, Nicodemus. I don’t care what manner of thing you’ve made yourself. Tell me where to find you.”

“You already found me, Ebeneza. I’m with you every day. And before you interrupt again to tell me why that’s nonsense, you need to listen to me. I don’t know how long this line can hold. I need you to listen.”

**Ebb**

He’s right, my Nicky. I do know. I didn’t expect to ever get this close, again. Now that I’ve a taste of it, I don’t know if I can go another year breathing in and out without the breeze of his voice on my cochlea, setting the villi swaying.

I focus on the meaning now, on the words coming down the line. Because I can feel the energy slipping. He tells me the name of a bank. He says to send Basil there, there's a safe deposit box in his name. And then the line goes dead.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to know which things need explaining. I know in my head what's going on but now I think I never made it clear enough. 
> 
> Davy's obsessions with the occult led him to discovering that edge between magic and science, but an ugly edge (this is in the coming chapter, but basically Davy was in search of a modern alchemist version of immortality but where the substrate is blood. Other people's blood.) 
> 
> Ebb has always lived on the fault line that joins magic and science, but on a beautiful edge. 
> 
> Nicky always felt left behind by Ebb's strength and intuition and creepy insight and powerful warmth and love. It made him susceptible to Davy. He wanted to catch up to Ebb, to feel worthy of her and better than her and all the other things an orphaned twin might be imagined to feel. 
> 
> So he started down the path Davy was treading, using the semi magical chemicals that swarm in our bodies and brains, finding ways to use those neurotransmitters and hormones to become more than human.
> 
> It worked, sort of, in that he became more than human. But also less than human. And his own guilt pulled him to the less-than-human side, even though at first it was just that he was different. It didn't have to mean that he was worse. But once he saw what Davy was, he was sick with guilt and fear and it pushed the whole thing down a twisted hill.
> 
> The phone booth was a sort of inside-joke-sculpture-thing between Ebb and Nicky, from before Nicky was fully gone. To me it's about connection and disconnection and wishing you could turn into superman.
> 
> It had enough magic in it from how much they loved each other and how much Ebb still loved Nicky, that it remained a latent open connection between them after Nicky ran away. Ebb sensed it, and brought the phone booth with her when she moved to NY, even though everyone thought she was crazy.
> 
> And now the combined power of the three ghosts, Tasha and Lucy and Nicky, have been activated by Davy facing Ebb in the diner. Lucy had set it all in motion decades ago. That's in another fic in the series now. 
> 
> Oh, and Davy tried to get Nicky to murder Tasha when she started putting things together and suspected he'd murdered Lucy. He had also hired two other people to make sure it happened.  That's how she came to be murdered in the night in front of little Baz.   
>  


	33. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, there was a psychopath named Davy. This is his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I don't know if this is exactly a trigger warning, but the bulk of this chapter is told from Davy's point of view. And, as he is one seriously fucked up dude, it will probably be squeamishly uncomfortable to read. Sorry 'bout that. You can skip to the notes where I try to explain it in from outside Davy's head.

Once upon a time, there was a family. They lived in a house in a nice suburb of a large American city. Every morning, the woman would pack lunch for her children and take them to school. Every evening, the man would come home from his office and kiss his wife and children hello. Though they knew at some level that they were a white heterosexual couple with two children and a dog, they felt unique to themselves. Special, specific. They contained multitudes.

The older boy was named David, but everyone called him Davy. This irritated him. His parents’ happiness irritated him. Their disinterest in getting more, finding more, having more; it irked him. It disgusted him. He was precociously aware of everything he didn't have. A swimming pool like Jake. A miniature car that he could drive around the flat sidewalks of his bland neighborhood like Michael. A horse, a whip, a hideout.

The worst of it was, he was better than all of them. Smarter, faster, stronger. The unfairness of it burned in his blood. It made it hard for him to sit still. The injustice of being punished for his anger burned even hotter. His wrath grew every time he was called to the principal’s office, kept after school, denied TV or dessert or time outside. He was smarter than his teachers, smarter than the principal, smarter than his parents. He was trapped. He vowed to get free as soon as he could, and to never be trapped again.

In the meantime, he made the most of the world around him. He did not believe in waste. He studied his peers closely, and learned how to act like the other children. He learned how to cause people to like him. He learned how to use the adults around him to his best advantage. Most of all, he learned never to divulge that this was how he thought of the world, of himself.

There was a brief period in Davy’s childhood when he was happy. Not long after he had started school, his parents brought home a baby. The creature was named Simon. His parents told him that Simon was his. He was thrilled. Finally, something he could own in the way his parents owned him. He quickly discovered that this was a lie. Disappointment sat bitterly with the discovery. His parents were always near the thing, carrying it around, watching it, listening for its cry.

But Davy was an exceptional child. His determination always won out over frustration, and this was no exception. He bided his time, observed his surroundings closely, and meticulously mapped out his path to triumph. He had already learned that his parents should not be present when he hurt things. After the incident with the cat, they had whispered about him. They had engaged in hushed conversations late at night. They had taken him to a room with subpar toys and a woman whose riddles had to be solved before he could be free of her. Fortunately, that turned out to be easy enough. Just repeat back what she said until you found the right combination, and hammer it home with facial gestures and physical contact.

He employed a similar strategy now. He repeated what he heard the adults saying about the baby. He carefully tracked which phrases elicited reactions like “wonderful big brother,” and “lucky to have a brother like you.” He listened to the whispered conversations. He stayed silent enough for long enough to lull the adults into open conversations when he was in the room. He waited for phrases like “just going through a stage,” and “needn't have worried,” until finally he heard new phrases: _kind and warm; can be trusted_. He endured the hugs he was expected to return, the inane exchanges of “I love you” and endless kisses goodnight.

He tested a carefully curated subset of gestures and phrases with Simon, finding the ones that most often resulted in being left alone with him. He patiently repeated the process for months, until his parents gave in to their own exhaustion and desperate wish to believe he was normal. It galled him to be thought of as being the same manner of creature as his pathetic classmates, but by now he'd come to understand that most humans knew no better. He'd come to understand that he was special, a god born to mortals, and he would be persecuted for it if he tried to demand his due.

It was all worth it. For a while. The pleasure of finding what kind of cries he could extract from Simon was exhilarating. The feeling of success when he learned that merely dangling the thing upside down was sufficient to evoke human-grade terror was the closest to happiness he'd yet come. This was so, so much better than squirrels. Even better than the cat. It was intoxicating.

As Simon got older, Davy discovered another layer of pleasure he had not known about before. Because no one knew what Davy was doing to him, Simon was considered an unreasonably fussy baby. Later, he was labeled a disruptive toddler. His tantrums in preschool provoked more hushed conversations and rooms with old ladies than Davy’s misbehavior ever had. And as Simon’s star fell, Davy’s rose. He was the good child. The example Simon was told to strive for. He was the compassionate big brother who never got angry with the baby, no matter how difficult the baby was. The thrill of deceit was like salt in a stew. It brought out the flavor of Simon’s pain with extraordinary clarity. This was a completely new form of pleasure, and Davy was grateful to his brother for making him aware of it.

But as Davy grew older, it wasn't enough. It became logistically more difficult to hurt Simon once he talked and went to school and had his own room. On top of which, the acts themselves had reached a point of diminishing returns. So Davy once again grew bored and resentful.

This time, however, he found himself in possession of a far more developed frontal cortex than he'd had to make due with in years past. Davy did not repeat his earlier mistakes. He was a master of discretion and misdirection. He discovered how easy it was to make people see what they wanted to see. He researched his options for extracting pain without interference.

These were some of the things he learned: it was difficult to get someone to give you a baby of your own. However, if you found a girl to give birth to it when she was yours, the baby was yours, too. Not if you were a child, unfortunately. The way the adult world discriminated against the young was shameful. But Davy was nothing if not patient.

He learned other things: how old you had to be before you were legally an adult, and could come and go as you pleased. How many places the world held. How few steps were needed to get to them. By the fifth grade, he’d set a plan in place to accomplish his goals. Change his identity, go to school abroad, find a wife and acquire a child.

It was far from easy. There were times when Davy almost gave up. When he learned what would be asked of him to accomplish the goal of having a woman give birth to his child, he was so discouraged that he could hardly move. But the subsequent attention and coddling for his adolescent melancholy presented so many opportunities for pleasurable deception that he was soon himself again.

He reminded himself to stay focused. It would be worth it, in the end. And he always played the long game. He observed the mating of his peers around him, and diligently practiced various approaches. He stuck with two, and practiced them until they gleamed. One approach made girls look at him with hazy eyes, and would be useful later. The other approach uncovered girls and boys who let him hurt them, which was useful now. Thus, adolescence passed pleasantly enough. Davy was secure in the knowledge that soon his preparations would yield fruit.

In his freshman year of high school, he made a discovery almost as life-changing as the ones Simon had led him to. By now, he had learned the value of external knowledge as an extension of direct experience. He read everything. First person histories, natural philosophy, and the written and oral records of ancient civilizations. He studied politics and science and literature and art, and he forgot nothing.

He was insatiable and gifted. He was in possession of vast quantities of free time, as well as unfettered access to the university library in his town, and the devotion of his parents and teachers. He assembled a series of diverted routers and servers that gave him direct and anonymous access to the Internet, both light and dark. Unfettered by moral delicacy, he was free to consume banned data that had been collected from prisoners and slaves over millenia. He studied the readily available records kept by twentieth century European governments and twenty-first century regimes in the Americas.

And this is what he learned: the human body is capable of astonishing feats in moments of extreme stress. Superhuman acts of strength and agility are so well documented as to be indisputable. Another fact: The human brain is capable of wreaking dramatic change in the human body. Thought controls form; psychology shapes physiology. The supremacy of mind over matter has been catalogued and confirmed by scientists, psychiatrists, and ethnologists worldwide. It, too, is indisputable.

Davy also learned this: These powers are stitched from gossamer strands of polypeptides and neurotransmitters. They are governed by ancient subcortical structures and unassuming glands, unmyelinated c-tracts and intercellular space. A fluid choreography mediated by that most primal of all substances: blood. Blood, flooded with acetylcholine, dopamine, epinephrine. Bathing the nervous system in testosterone, adrenaline, cortisol. Catalyzing conformational changes, forging neuronal paths, changing muscle tissue and transforming immune response. The mind is capable of altering the very structure of the brain itself.

And. Davy paid attention to stories, too. Cautionary European children's tales and contemporary American comic books. Tales of vampires and ghouls and mutants. The vetalas and the lilu; the ramanga, jiangshi and riri yaka. He slowly began to piece together the links shared by ancient Egyptian burial rites and the sacrificial underwater caves of the Maya. The principles of fasting and isolation in Native American coming of age ceremonies and the Kabbalist traditions of seclusion and meditation. An ancient chain of traditions that set off the cortisol-fueled cascade of superhuman strength, combined with practices that detached the mind from the body through sensory deprivation. The dark of caves, tombs, coffins and suspension tanks. Pain and terror and fear, physical mutilation and psychological isolation. All pointing to the eternal human wish for divine transcendence. For immortality, whether it be that of a god or a devil.

Davy was not the first to put these facts together. For tens of thousands of years, people had subjected themselves to rituals and practices aimed at accessing this latent power. If the stories of countless millennia across civilizations are to be believed, those who succeeded did so at unfathomable cost to their humanity.

Nor was Davy the first to envision a system by which one could use the pain and fear of others to extract the necessary ingredients for immortality and omnipotence. It was standard practice among those few who succeeded in the quest, to supplement the initial transformation by making use of the blood of others.

Davy nevertheless saw himself a visionary. He flourished as all his life's passions coalesced into this one grand goal: he would be the first to accomplish the entire cycle with no pain or cost to himself.

The day he turned eighteen, he changed his name and left the country without breathing a word of his plans to anyone. It wasn't so much that he didn't care about the fact that his parents, grief stricken, would spend fruitless years trying to find him. It was more that they ceased to exist for him as soon as their utility was exhausted. He would later be amused to learn that hapless Simon had been destroyed by the widespread belief that he was to blame for Davy’s disappearance. Sometimes there was justice in the world after all.

Young, attractive, and alive with purpose, Davy easily attracted a following at the hallowed university he attended in Europe. He carefully cultivated two kinds of acolytes: those who could aid him by virtue of their strength and resources. And those who could assist him by virtue of possessing a womb in which to incubate the glorious child on whom all his theories could be tested.

The rest, you know. Most of it, anyway. Davy was forced to put up with some unpleasantness when Natasha became a nuisance and the police disbanded his clique. By then, however, he had secured a promising uterus, which was easily enough hidden when the necessity arose. His plans seemed blessed when the child turned out to be a son. He found girls mildly distasteful, and believed their biophysics to be poorly suited to the extraction of the materials he would need. He named the boy Simon, in homage to his brother. He disposed of the mother shortly after the birth of the boy. He could always acquire another, if need be.

Alas, the journey wasn’t it as easy as he'd hoped. The boy was useless. Careful as Davy had been to generate favorable conditions for conception, the child's blood was thin as gruel and yielded precious little beyond platelets and hemoglobin. But Davy was undeterred. He remained patient as ever. He stayed focused as the child grew, regularly stimulating Simon’s stress response and testing his blood. He was equal parts creative and studious in his methods. He scoured fifteenth century Inquisition records, and modern accounts from Darfur, Guantanamo, Syria. The process itself was rewarding. Nevertheless, more years passed than he would have liked, each bringing him only incrementally closer to immortality.

Davy made good use of the time. He followed the example of history’s most successful adherents to the cause: politics. The States provided a wide canvas on which to design his image. By the time the child was five, Davy was already well established in the state legislature. He was state comptroller by the time Simon was ten, and governor by the time the boy was fourteen. Davy could breathe easily now, confident of the immunity granted by his constituents’ loyalty and fervor. He monitored the whereabouts and activities of everyone who could potentially compromise his progress.

Thus it happened that he learned of the existence of Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

Davy became convinced that where Simon failed, Basilton could succeed. Natasha was far more powerful than Lucy; that much was certain. Her bloodline was purer. The cocktail of stress hormones could be more cleanly harvested from her offspring. The blood itself would provide a more powerful substrate to support the absorption of the foreign compounds into his own system. He became obsessed with the possibilities, and tracked the family carefully.

When Natasha’s meddling increased and her suppositions skirted too close to the truth, Davy took it as a sign. He could remove the threat and gain a new subject to refresh his experiments. His position in the world was secure enough for him to take a few risks. To accomplish his goal, Davy reached out to the most promising of his former disciples. To his regret, but not his shock, Nicky proved unworthy. The others he had hired could not be expected to understand the value of the boy beyond the need to silence the mother. And so Natasha was removed, but Basilton remained beyond his reach.

Davy met this setback with his usual grace. It was of no import. The children were young, yet. There was time to see if Simon would grow into his destiny. There was time to find alternatives if needed. Davy was still very young, very strong, and very powerful. There was time.

He could be forgiven for the layer of bitterness that began to coat his interactions with the boy. The child was diverting, at best. For the most part, he was blackly disappointing. Occasionally Davy gave in to his worse nature, and lost his temper. He tried not to take it too hard. For the most part, he was as disciplined and methodical as he had been in his youth. More so, perhaps.

His efforts did not go completely unrewarded. The untiring distillation of power from fear and pain resulted in a modest accumulation of potent serums. Davy’s body reacted to each new application with steadily increasing sensory and motor strength. Though incremental, the success was undeniable.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. But it was more than anyone before him had ever achieved.

He couldn’t help but be amused when the boy neared adulthood and started planning to run. Perhaps there was some relation between them after all, Davy mused, as Simon arranged to change his name and escape his home. Simon acted with the typical arrogance of all adolescents, thinking he had invented the concept of escape. Never guessing that he was replaying his father’s own actions, decades earlier.

Davy let the boy’s plans play out. After all, something needed to shift. As he tracked Simon’s pseudonymous applications to college, Davy’s mind turned again to Basilton. He arranged for Columbia to offer a generous, no-questions-asked package to the version of Simon that called itself _Snow_. He went through the necessary charade of searches and manhunts after Simon left, even as he arranged for all of them to fail. He did have to intervene personally at one point, to keep the Bunce girl from introducing too much uncertainty into the game. And then, like the patient creature he was, he waited.

When Simon made the mistake of talking to the press, Davy found that couldn’t resist persecuting him, just a little. He was disappointed to find himself so sentimental. However, he had long go made his peace with the knowledge that he wasn’t perfect. So he indulged himself in these small amusements.

Two more years passed. They were fruitful. It was easier for Davy to develop new theories without the distraction of the boy. Finally, several months before the boy was to graduate, Davy decided that it was time. He had developed a new set of tests he was eager to try. To Davy’s delight, the ruse with Columbia worked. Simon found Basilton for him. Davy was eager to experiment on both of them. He was curious to see if perhaps there was gain to be had in the addition of oxytocin and dopamine to the mix. Love, fear, hate and pain could make a potent mix. Things were coming together.

It is possible that he was impatient. He had managed over the years to extend his senses and slow his aging, but he was incontrovertibly aging. Davy had achieved perception of ultrasound and subsonic vibrations; ultraviolet and infrared light; the impressions left by the living and the dead. He could manipulate the signals that established correlations between the neural signaling of distinct brains. He could adapt his voice and gaze so as to convince an audience of the truth of what he was declaiming. He could go for days without sleeping and weeks without eating. But he had not yet managed to completely arrest the relentless erosion of time as it scraped its inevitable way across his mortal body.

It was this encroaching mortality that he blamed when he finally apprehended Simon, only to find Ebb. Weak, forgettable Ebb. It vexed him to discover that she had somehow eluded his detection all this time. And it frightened him more than he cared to admit that Simon had found his way to her. But he was decisive; he was a man of action, not of failure. Not of fear. And so he determined to finish the story here, now. He would take what he could from each of them, and leave the rest to burn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, how to summarize this? Davy was born with no moral human core. Incapable of feeling compassion for others, but brilliant, and driven. This condition is known as psychopathy. 
> 
> The combination of his sense of superiority, his lust for power and immortality, his brilliance and curiosity and sadism, all led him to his life's goal. Which was to use the neurotransmitters that flood a brain in distress, harvest them from the blood of the poor soul to whom this brain belongs, and concentrate them into a serum that will enhance and grow his own power, and extend his life indefinitely. 
> 
> That's my sci-fi version of vampires, and in my fic, Nicky became a vampire by following Davy. Most vampires don't get far in the transformation, because they are generating the powers in part through setting off a chemical cascade in their own bodies. 
> 
> They, like Nicky, end up stuck in a monstrous state. Davy is too smart and too patient and too careful to let that happen to him. He will never use his own flesh and blood to gather the neurochemicals he needs. 
> 
> But only literally his own flesh and blood. A child is just fine. Perfect actually. So he finds Lucy so she can give him a child whom he can use as a source of these powerful substrates, then kills her when she does. 
> 
> But Simon is a disappointment. His blood is insufficient. So Davy decides to kidnap Natasha's boy, and kill her along the way. That only half works out. 
> 
> In the meantime, though Simon doesn't have enough power to make Davy truly immortal, he does produce enough to enable Davy to strengthen the powers he already has. Much of Davy's power lies in compelling people to see what he wants them to see, which is a form of almost infinite power.
> 
> Other plot related details: Davy knew that Simon was planning to run, arranged to have him go to school with Baz, whom he still wants, and visits Penny to compel her not to look for Simon. That spell is broken by meeting Agatha, whom Lucy has sent her way so as to bring her back to Simon. 
> 
> And now you're all caught up.


	34. March 16th, 5 pm

**Simon**

I don't even realize I've gotten to my feet by the time Ebb returns the old fashioned handset to its cradle. But I'm standing next to her, so I must have gotten up.

I can't read the expression on her face. Which scares me. Ebb’s face is usually like mine, easy to read as a nursery rhyme.

“'Twas Nicky, that,” she says with a nod of her head. I'd gathered that much from her half of the conversation. But I don't understand how it could be him. Isn't her brother dead?

I think back over everything she's told me about Nicky. I realize that she's never said he was dead. Just that he was gone. I thought she was being conventionally metaphorical. I should have known better. There’s nothing conventional about Ebb.

“Are you ok? Do you want to, um, talk? I mean, about it? About him? Nicky, I mean.” I stutter, stupidly. These are all the wrong things to say. But what other words can I use?

“No, child,” she says straight, confirming my failure. “But there's not a lick of this that's your doing. I think I might be out of stories, though, for tonight. You'll come tomorrow?” she asks, and I try to nod but there's no air in my lungs.

She's asking me to leave, because I shouldn't even be here. She said it’s not my doing. A lie. Of course it's my doing.

Davy being here is my doing. My being here is my doing. Her hearing from Nicky and then losing him again in the same moment. The crushing sadness on her face. My doing.

I don't understand exactly what it has to do with Davy, but I'm sure it does. I bring Davy wherever I go, and Davy brings loss and pain.

I should know better than to pull other people into this mess. I should know better than to get close to people, make them feel responsible for my weakness, for my sorry life. Make them bring me home. And with me, all my darkness. I bring my darkness with me everywhere I go.

I cringe at my own selfishness. Wanting closeness, wanting people, when all it can do is hurt them. The least I can do for someone who's been so kind to me is to stay out of the rest of her life. What am I even doing here? I feel like I'm stuck in some dream, trying to blink sense back into myself.

“Yeah,” I manage to breathe. “Tomorrow. I'll, um. I'll come to work tomorrow?” I hope I still have a job. Or maybe that's wrong too? What's selfishness, what's responsibility? What is survival?

She nods, though, somewhat absently. “That's settled then,” she says, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Unless you want to stay here tonight? I have a room…”

“No,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. Too loud. Like everything about me. “I mean. I. We’ll um. No. But, thank you?” I’m fairly certain the look that passes across her face is relief. But honestly, who knows. I'm kind of a mess.

Ebb turns to Baz.

“The call was actually for you, Basilton.” I'm probably the only one in the room that can tell how shocked he is. His face barely changes.

“Nicky,” she pauses long enough to make me wonder if she's going to say anything else. But then she breathes again, and continues. “He says you're to go this bank,” she writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to him. “You're to go there and ask for a key that's being held in your name. It's for a safe deposit box. It's a bit too late for it today, but you'd best go in the morning. Early, I suppose. I reckon it's urgent. I don’t know what it's about. But I know that I haven't heard that voice in more than twenty years.”

I watch in horror as Baz takes the paper, says ok. As he gets pulled into this trap. No. Not Baz, too. He has nothing to do with this. None of them do. I need to put a stop to all this.

I need to find Davy. He wants me, not them. It's already too late for me. I'm already broken. I can spend the rest of my life pretending I'm not, but it won't change the fact that I am. I can't protect myself at the expense of the people I love.

I feel the resolve solidify inside me. It straightens my shoulders, clears my eyes. Raises my head. I'll find him tomorrow. I'll put a stop to the rest of it.

I've always known this is how it has to happen. It's always been my fate. I've tried to dodge it long enough. I have to stop running from it before I burn down everything I touch.

I feel a little bad about lying to Ebb. Because I probably won't be at work tomorrow after all. Wherever I end up after I surrender myself to Davy, it's unlikely to be the bakery. Wherever I am after I leave my friends safely to the rest of their lives, and draw Davy far away from all of them.

But first, there's one more night. And I want to spend it with Baz. I want one last normal night, before. Before I give up this fantasy and return to the other world. The one where I know I really belong.

**Penny**

I watch Simon's face change as Ebb turns away from him. I hadn't known there was room for it to fall farther than it already had. The exhausted fear that until now had dominated his expression, concentrates into an expression of loss. Grief. I don't know what just happened. I couldn't hear what she said.

I wait for Ebb to turn back to him, to help him. She's better at reading people than anyone I've ever seen. And she loves Simon. Whatever he thinks she just said, he has to be wrong.

But she doesn't turn back. She walks to Baz, hands him an address on a piece of paper, and disappears down the hallway. Baz stares mutely at the paper in his hand, not looking at anything else. Not looking at Simon.

I turn back to Simon. But by now, his face has transformed again. He looks steady. Serious and determined. Seems like a reasonable enough emotional response to the situation. So I shrug off my uneasiness and follow him as he gathers up our jackets and heads to the door.

**Baz**

As we near the dorm, I start to worry. Simon is obviously not ok. The more ok he tries to act, the more worried I get. I assumed Penny would come back with us, but she peels off when we pass 114th.

Simon actually starts acting a little less weird, so I guess it was a good call on her part. He accepts my hand when I offer it this time, and something loosens inside me.

He stays a couple of steps away, though. Letting our hands hang between us. Not leaving any opening for my arm to circle him like it aches to do. I want to wrap him up and hide him away from the world. So I honestly can't blame him for treating me like I'm being overly clingy.

I have no idea what's going on in his head. He's been talking about the football game this morning and about the movie we had planned on seeing later tonight. As though everything in between never happened.

I have no idea what to do in this situation. Any sense of power I felt when I sat beside him, facing off against Davy, has evaporated in the heat of my building helplessness.

I try to reason it out as I walk beside him. Since I have no idea what will help or hurt, the best plan seems to go along with Simon’s deception. Even though we both know he's lying. Even though every instinct screams at me to ignore his unspoken request to pretend nothing happened.

My instincts don't have a great track record. Acknowledging what's wrong might be worse. Catastrophically worse. I have no way to know. In which case, helping him play his self-protective charade seems like the best way to protect him.

So that's what I do. I go out to eat with him, like we planned. We laugh and gossip about our friends. Or rather, he tells endearing stories about his friends and I make snide comments.

We see a stupid movie that I will have to re-see if, in some unlikely future, my life depends on having a bloody clue as to what it was about. Or who the main characters were, or whether it was a buddy film or a fucking documentary about prize-winning ranunculi.

The only sign that Simon knows this is a farce is that he lets me pay for everything. His wallet is still back in our room, where he left it. With his phone. And everything else he didn't have time to grab before being abducted by his father.

The whole game almost works. He genuinely seems ok as we walk back to the dorm. I'm congratulating myself for making the right call as I turn the key and open the door, politely waiting for Simon to walk in first.

I see the tension return to his shoulders and back as soon as he steps through the doorway. I figure what's wrong immediately, but I'm still too late. I know what he's looking at. That fucking muffin on its fucking plate. Of all times for our avaricious roommates to decide not to eat someone else's food, today was not the day. A muffin should not remain uneaten all day when left on the kitchen counter in a college dorm.

It’s only a second though, before Simon steps fully into the room and picks up the thread of whatever he’d been going on about before we got home. Something about the movie. (Soul searching in Las Vegas? Ideal soil conditions for dense petal growth?) He keeps talking, pretending not to see me sweep the muffin up and dump it into the trash as quickly as I can.

My misgivings grow as he ignores his bag, still in the corner of our room. As he kicks off his sneakers, still muddy from his game this morning. As he peels off the sweaty t-shirt he never got to change, and gathers his shit for the shower he never got to take.

I still haven't figured out what to do when he returns a couple of minutes later, fully dressed. Which is unusual, but not unprecedented. The rough pink that dulls his slightly manic eyes is the only thing that belies the cheerful expression on his face.

A month ago I wouldn't have been able to tell that he was hiding. He probably thinks I still can't tell. He probably thinks I believe that he's happy. That I have no idea that inside he's screaming. My playing along with going out on that mockery of a date with him didn't help convince him otherwise.

I can't stand for him to think I don't know. Which is why I finally give in to myself. I walk over to him, reach my arm out. He clumsily avoids my hand, mutters an apology about being really tired and wanting to go straight to bed. I try not to feel hurt.

“Don't do this,” I hear myself saying. “Simon, don't leave me out…”

Except that I never get to say “out,” the intended last word of that sentence. Because something goes strange in his face at the words “don't leave me” and I realize that oh fuck, he's planning to leave me. He's actually planning to leave me.

The pain hits me like like a crowbar, cracking everything it touches. I fucked up. I did it wrong. I chose wrong, and now he's leaving. I can't breathe.

He doesn’t outright deny it. Instead, he tries to cover his shock with “what would even make you think that?”

I can't answer (the only words that come to mind are “actually it was the look on your face when you misunderstood my incomplete sentence”) so I, too, evade his question with my own.

“Why?” I breathe. The bizarre shift in the conversation has robbed me of the capacity to hold back my tears or school my face to hide the grief and horror. I try to fight my feelings down. I don't want to let him make this about me. I don't want to let him avoid his own pain by deflecting it with a new pain, one of his doing.

But what I want doesn't matter. My whole body is reacting to the sick feeling of finding out I've been wrong, this isn't different, this isn't going to all be ok. Why don't I ever learn this lesson? Everyone leaves. Everyone. I can't stand it. I'm breaking.

“No. Don't. Why?” I stumble over my words, finally understanding what he must feel like all the time. Filled with emotions too big to hold, confused by the incomprehensible things people around him are doing.

“I'm sorry, Simon,” I hear myself saying. “For whatever I did. I'm sorry. Give me another chance, please don't leave me.”

And this is bullshit. I do not get to passively hear myself whining pathetically. I need to get a grip on myself and say useful things. I need to hold down the anger that follows in the wake of my helplessness.

But my heart is breaking, and no matter how much I explain to myself that this is just an unconscious ploy to ignore his own feelings, I feel like I'm drowning. I actually grab on to him as though I am.

His eyes are wide, as though shocked by my objection. Shocked that I don’t want him to leave me. What the hell is going on in his head?

Oh. Oh, fucking YA bullshit. Fucking Twilight. He thinks he's protecting me. He is such an idiot that my terror starts to ebb. I can see the moment that his resolve cracks. Something goes loose in his shoulders, his face. I wrap my arms around him, and this time he lets me. He hugs me back.

“But it's better…” he starts to say. I hush him with my lips, hug him tighter, put my mouth near his ear. I feel his pulse in his chest and his neck, and I feel like I need to hold him so he doesn't bleed out and disappear.

“Simon, I love you. I fucking love you. Leaving me would not be helping me. Any time you find yourself thinking like Edward Cullen, you should take it as a sign that your plan is messed up. Sacrificing yourself to save the person you love never works out right. Because they love you back. They love you back so much. All they want is you.”

He's crying and shuddering on my shoulder and I hold him. I hold him and hold him and let myself realize that he loves me. Whatever idiotic thing he was planning to do (and really, what the hell was he planning to do? I don't actually want to know. I give myself permission to wait until later to figure all that out) was out of a misguided, messed up feeling of love.

The knowledge is like a blade through the ropes constricting my breath, undoing the noose around my heart that he pulled tight by wanting to abandon me. I can focus again, my thoughts are my own again. And my thoughts are on him.

“buh’rooda _no_ ” he mumbles, words garbled by my shirt and his tears. Except the No. He almost screams it, voice anguished, then cries even harder. I don't want to fake my way through this minefield.

On the other hand, I also don't want to say, _pardon me, Simon, but would you mind repeating whatever words ripped you to shreds just a second ago, right before you broke down sobbing_? It's a conundrum.

I compromise. When he's calmer, I whisper “what?”

He answers, but it doesn’t really clarify. “Me. About me.”

I try repeating myself. “What, Simon? What about you?”

“Everything. The things. You don't know” [ah, it was _know_ , not _no_ ] “about. Me. You don't know the things I've done, Baz. That's why you still think. That's why you still want. That's why you think you don't want. But you don't know, Baz. You don't know.”

I stroke his hair and his back and try not to break apart as I reason my way through his words. But reason is the wrong strategy here. This is the looking glass world of childhood fear. Cause and effect work differently there. When the effect is pain, the cause is always “me.” Even when “me” is a tiny kid. In your own imagination, you're never too small to be wrong, terribly awfully wrong. I know it all too well.

“It's not your fault,” I start to say.

And suddenly he's furious. He pulls away from me and spits “you don't fucking know anything. Don't give me that bullshit. You don't know any of it. You don't know what I've done. I've told you bits and pieces of what he did, and you think you know. But you don't fucking know. You don't know the things I've done.” I can see the fury and the terror warring for control of him.

I start to say, “but you were only …” but he cuts me off again viciously.

“Don't. Don't tell me I was a kid, that it couldn't be my fault. Don't fucking pretend to have any fucking clue.”

He's trying to hurt me again. To make me push back. To push until I break so he knows he's right, that I don't want him. That I'm better off without him. That he is nothing but pain, that leaving me is the only way someone like him should express love.

But it doesn't work this time. He can't try breaking my heart again, I'm not stupid enough to fall for it twice in an hour. His worst nightmares don’t know what they're up against. That they’ve met their match. That I won't let them have him. I won't let them take him from me. There's no fucking way the nightmares win.

So I hold his eyes with mine, and keep them there as I drag his hand up from his side and unclench his fist until his fingertips rest on the scar at the side of my neck. I hold them there until I can see that he understands. I let him see me, too. I let him see into my worst fears, into the endless death of my own self loathing. He’s gone silent and still.

He starts to croak out, “but that was…” and I shake my head before he can say the word different.

“I called her,” I confess. “I called her.” I want to explain the rest. That if I'd called my father instead, maybe my father would be dead instead of my mother.

If I hadn't called for anyone, if I'd just screamed, maybe my father would have come with his gun before my mother came with nothing. Then maybe the killer would have died instead of my mother.

And, most damning. If I hadn't called out at all. If I'd stayed silent and still and brave, maybe I would have. Maybe I would have died instead of her.

I can't say any of it. And he doesn't know the form of it, but I can see in his eyes that he knows enough. I can see it in his eyes and in the soft motion of his mouth, moving but not making a sound. He doesn't understand, but he knows.

We will always be guilty. It doesn't matter that we understand perfectly well that we’re not. We can form the sentence: It's not my fault. We can understand the words, what they mean when arranged in that particular order.

But that kind of understanding is bullshit. We may form sentences, we may even firmly assert their truth. But it doesn't change what we know. We know that it is our fault. We don't _think_ it's our fault, we don't _believe_ it. We _know_ it.

We know it as clearly as we know what bitter tastes like, as directly as we know how pain feels. It's knowing, and it can't be changed.

It can't be changed, but it can be tempered. Our narrative-hungry minds can form another layer of knowing. Because there's more that I know, now.

I know it's not Simon’s fault. I know it in the same way I know what his lips taste like, I know it as directly as I know how his arms around me feel.

And I know that he knows the same about me. So the two types of knowledge can sit together. Knowing that it is, and knowing that it isn't. His fault. My fault.

It'll never take away the knowing that it is. Not for him, either, much as I wish it could. But at least there's the comfort of someone else next to you, knowing it isn't. Layering their knowing over yours, protecting you from the full power of your own lonely consciousness.

We hold each other and try. Try to know. Try not to be alone. And it doesn't change anything. I don't get my mother back. He doesn't get his childhood back. It doesn't change a fucking thing, but it helps. It still helps. So we hold on. We don't let go.

 


	35. March 17, 7 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon wake up. Baz heads to the bank under Nicky's instructions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from the story's pov. Also known as normal 3rd person omniscient. More or less.

_March 17th, 7am_

**the** **Story** (tells herself)

Baz and Simon wake the next morning, wrapped tightly in one another's arms. They wake up afraid. Both pretend to still be asleep, holding on to the fiction for just a little longer. But why are they afraid of the coming light, of the clearing consciousness?

Simon feels himself held tight in Baz’s arms as he lets the memory of yesterday drown him, little by little. He remembers Baz’s arms draped around him in the diner. He smiles to himself at the memory of Baz’s sharp smile. Baz is all edges and blades. Except with him. With Simon, he is soft. His voice is honey and his eyes are smoke and the iron of his arms is a shelter around them. He lets his posture slip and his eyes roll and his mouth turn up in a smile's curve. Simon’s mind wakes up scared, but his body relaxes into the truth: here, with Baz, he is safe.

Baz feels Simon’s warmth sear him along every point of contact. He wraps himself more tightly around the heat, until he can feel it through every inch of his body. He feels fierce and gentle and powerful. Holding Simon is being home. Having Simon is having a home, the first he’s allowed himself since his world was ripped apart by monsters in the middle of the night. Baz knows Simon. He knows Simon's strength, and he knows the molten core of steel that runs through him like blood. He knows the shield Simon never relaxes. So for Baz, being allowed to hold Simon like this is the clearest signal of being worthy he has ever known. Simon, who refuses to accept anything from anyone else, lets him have this. Him, Baz. Simon believes he is worthy, and so he is.

So why are they so afraid to wake? By now, they've both come to trust that the warmth of the other body next to theirs is real, and not simply a dream. So why don’t they know that is safe to abandon sleep? That it will always be safe, now. Safe to wake beside one another, to wake and to remain awake.

This is why: It is not the heat they doubt, but the reflection. Of all the ways they match, they don’t dare to hope that this is one of them. Their feelings for each other have the clarity of kindness and certainty. They are the feelings of having and being had, holding and being held.

It is love. They each feel it. But neither thinks it could be the same for the other. It is enough to feel this kind of love at all, they remind themselves. It is greedy to wish for more. Baz knows it is useless to dream of being loved in the way he loves Simon. Simon has seen enough of the world to know that things like this don’t happen.

It has, of course, already happened. But neither of them has the capacity to believe it. Yet.

This is what becomes of children who grow up in fairy tales. The old tales, the true ones. The ones populated by monsters and ghosts, evil kings and wicked magicians. Baz and Simon don’t know how many chapters are left. They can’t know that they’ve made it through the first part of their stories, and are approaching the end.

They will still be called upon to face monsters, but it will be different now. They are transformed. They have woven a magical binding of love between them that will never fade, nor warp, nor disappear. A love that gives, with no need to take, because the other’s love is just as freely given. A love so abundantly present, the usual laws of give and take fade, until all that remains is having.

They have reached true love and happily ever after. They have arrived at the moment of the story where there are promises that will never be broken. They wield the power of storybook heroes, to never hurt one another. Heroes who have won knowledge of enchanted fruits, who have decoded the maps that lead to hidden treasures.

You and I know that it has already happened, but they don't. Which really isn't very fair, is it? Irony is a real motherfucker.

So in this chapter, our two heroes still wake up afraid. Keeping their eyes closed against the day, holding on to sleep and to one another. Until the braver of the two forces himself awake. He tries his earnest best not to wake the wiser of the two. Being brave but clumsy, he fails. Not being a morning person, the other groans in protest.

It is hard to know what lovers say to one another in bed. The words may be overheard, but never with the ears of the beloved. Speech has little meaning without the speaker. Words wait, waves of sound devoid of meaning, until they find the hearer.

Thus, a stranger might peer into this bed just as the dark haired boy groans in protest at the sudden cold. Might overhear him curse the golden one, who has (as usual) pulled away all the covers and (also as usual) promptly tripped over them, sending a stack of books loudly crashing to the ground. As the dark mutters “I hate you” to the light, an observer might be forgiven for not knowing that the words actually mean “I love you.”

But Simon knows what the words mean, coming from Baz. And he knows that when Baz follows him out of bed far earlier than usual, and whispers against his ear “try not to do anything stupid,” he means “I'm scared to lose you.” And Baz knows that when Simon rolls his eyes and says “thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole,” he means “I’m yours, forever.”

(I said they were heroes; I never said they were poets.)

_An hour later (8 am)_

They part reluctantly at the corner. Simon heads east, to the bakery. Baz heads south, to the bank.

Baz hardly processes the steps that bring him to bank, or the polite instructions that lead him to the wall of locked compartments that appears now in front of him. In his hand he holds a key. His face is a smirking mask of calm indifference as he inserts it into the lock of unit ZD3K741. The box he finds within it smirks back at him, unimpressed.

And then Baz, his smirk, the box, and its contents (nothing more than a stack of old papers) are in a private room. This is a bank known for its dedication to the comfort and ease of its patrons, as well as its discretion. The upholstery is tasteful and the wifi very secure. Baz relaxes, suddenly curious despite himself. He is at home in rooms like these. They match. The grain of the wood, the glass in the sconces, the clothes he wears and the pen in his hand all signal wealth to those fluent in the semiotics of privilege.

He starts to shuffle through the papers in his hands, quickly, then more slowly. The first few are legal documents; deeds and contracts and warranties, limited liability partnerships and extended public options. Baz recognizes his mother’s signature from the nameplates in her books. Under the typed forms are a stack of notes she appears to have written herself. He recognizes her handwriting from shopping lists he stole off the fridge and preserved carefully for nearly two decades.

Tests and reports. Research results. Tenure applications. Unsent letters to Fiona. Notes about Natasha’s pregnancy. Observations about the life growing inside her. Concerns about the man standing beside her. Overwhelming joy and love for the infant, then toddler, then little boy.

Pictures and anecdotes. Slips of drawings and stories in his childish hand. Journals filled with the unexpectedly profound things he would say without understanding quite what he was saying.

Then. More unsent notes to Fiona, and letters from Fiona. With increasing urgency. Dots being connected, theories formed, suspicions validated. All related to Davy.

Baz doesn't allow himself more than a couple of minutes with the sudden discovery of a shrine to his life with his mother, filled with documentation of his mother's love, evidence of the reality of it all. He forces himself to turn to the later documents. He tries to decipher what Natasha thought she had discovered about Davy. Why was she telling Fiona? Why suddenly re-enter the world she’d worked so hard to escape?

Baz is startled by the unexpected intrusion of a phone ringing. He knocks over the chair he's been sitting in as he literally jumps out of his seat, scattering his mother’s papers everywhere. He is grateful that there are no cameras in these rooms to record his graceless falter. He frowns. The ring is annoying, a jingle from some quiz show. Certainly nothing he'd have programmed into his own phone. But the sound is undeniably emanating from his own jacket.

He reaches into the offending pocket and retrieves the ringing instrument. It's an old-fashioned clamshell phone. Baz flips it open with trepidation. His voice, however, remains even, as he snaps “who the fuck is this and what the fuck do you want?”

The laugh that greets him is somehow familiar and totally alien at the same time. It sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine

“Needn't get your knickers in a knot, mate. Phones don't bite. Though I can't always say the same about my kind.”

“Who. The fuck. Is this?” Baz repeats calmly, forcefully. He is unaware of how seamless his imitation of Malcolm has become.

“Now, lad, we both know you're smarter than that.”

It clicks. He could be hearing Ebb’s voice, if it were filtered through enormous lungs.

“Nicky,” he confirms aloud.

“That's better. Now listen with both ears, boyo, because I'll not be saying any of this twice. I don't know what Natasha had figured out before locking away those papers in your hands. When Davy hired me to grab you and kill her, I didn't stop on my way out of the country to drop in for tea and a chat. So I'm going to assume nothing useful was in that box. I mainly needed you at the bank so that I could slip this phone in your pocket.”

Baz stores this information away for later, and does as he's told. He listens, with both ears.

“I told him I'd do it, knowing I wouldn't, hoping it would buy us some time. But Davy’d been clever enough to hire three people to do the one job, and it didn't matter. I don't know who he found that was willing to finish her off, but it wasn't one of us, or you wouldn't be breathing that stale bank air and trying to glower at me through a bloody mobile right now.”

The rules of engagement come naturally to Baz. When you are at a disadvantage, never offer information. Never even go so far as to phrase something as a statement. Which leaves questions. Questions that must never be so vague as to allow evasion, nor so specific as to answer themselves.

Thus the next words out of Baz’s mouth are not what Nicky was anticipating. No outrage about Nicky leaving his mum to die. No questions about why Davy would want to kill her in the first place. No description of what he found in his mother's box, nor of what he didn't find.

Baz’s next words were these: “Why are you talking to me?”

Nicky pauses for a moment, possibly surprised. It's hard to know, with Nicky. He recovers quickly. “Fuck if I know. Because I’m a fucking saint. Because your mother asked me to. Because-”

“Asked you? Before she died?” Baz interrupts.

“Like I said, I never stopped off for tea. If she’d known to ask me before she died, she wouldn’t have fucking died.” Nicky pauses to let Baz connect the necessary dots. Being Baz, he does it quickly. He draws in a sharp breath. Nicky thinks he can speak with the dead.

He is surprised to find himself disappointed. He can dismiss this surreal conversation as the ravings of a lunatic. He should be relieved that he doesn't have to solve this particular mystery. He should most certainly not be mourning the lost excuse to hunt Davy down and enact his darkest revenge fantasies.

At least there's no longer a reason to watch what he says. No need for formality when talking to a madman. And, lunatic or not, this is Ebb’s brother. And Ebb is closest thing Simon has to family, which makes Baz protective of her by proxy. Baz is suddenly furious at this man on the phone. He thinks about the broken expression on Ebb’s face, after the line went dead the night before. About her saying she hasn't heard that voice in twenty years.

“You’re insane,” Baz hisses, matter of factly. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant, why are you talking to me, and not to your sister? If you can call me, why do you do that to her? Why pretend you’re dead to her?”

Nicky is silent for a long time. Baz doesn’t know if it’s regret, fury, or pure psychotic disconnect. And he doesn’t much care. He pinches the bridge of his nose, starts gathering his mother’s papers back into their box. He’s trying to decide how to end the phone call when Nicky’s voice emerges once again.

“Because I don’t give a fuck about you, boy. Ebb’s better off far away from me. My talking to her can only hurt her. Your safety doesn’t mean fuck all to me. Your mother crossed the veil to ask me to pass on this message. That’s no small thing for the dead to do. I don’t much care why she did it. Maybe she wants to you avenge her murder or some bullshit like that. All I know is that Ebb would want me to do it, if she knew Tasha’s reached out from beyond. So I did. It’s done. And now this conversation is officially fucking over.”  
  
Baz continues the conversation without quite meaning to. “So you’d rather Ebb chat with Davy than with you? You’re a fucking asshole.”

“You're lying. Ebb holds no truck with Davy.”

“What, did my dead mother fail to mention the little reunion yesterday?” Baz asks bitterly. Mockingly. Somewhat manically. Mostly talking to himself. Why is he still talking? He has no idea why he hasn't hung up the phone.

Except he does. Because this painful, twisted conversation about his mother is better than the emptiness that usually fills the space she left. Even the ravings of a madman are better than the total vacuum of death.

Nicky’s gone silent again. Baz’s phone buzzes. His actual phone. It’s a text from Penny.

_Worried about S_

He calls her back instead of texting. Nicky hears Baz’s half of the conversation through the clamshell that sits still open, forgotten, on the pointlessly exquisite mahogany of the small desk.

“… No, it was smart to follow him…… The bakery? … When? ……How long? …Do you think Davy’s there? ……Ok, I'm coming. Wait for me. ……Yeah, it was weird. I'll tell you when I see you. ...Penny, I’m hanging up on you now.” And he does, leaving the box locked beside the abandoned phone as he races out of the building and heads back uptown.

Nicky is silent, calculating. The boy had obviously not believed a word he said. He'd tried to tell Tasha that her son was unlikely to just accept a message from a ghost, especially one carried by so strange a stranger.

Not that he gives a fuck. He's held up his end of the deal, gained absolution for his part in her becoming a ghost in the first place. But. Tasha had held out on him. She'd sent him to this mortal city without warning him that Davy was here too. And if Baz saw Davy shortly before sitting in Ebb’s living room as Nicky spoke to her, then Ebb was in danger. And Lucy’s boy was probably wrapped up in this too, a rotting fish in day-old newspaper.

Cursing loudly under his breath, he heads toward Ebb’s bakery. There might be no help for it. She may have to suffer the pain of seeing him like this, if it means keeping her safe from the devil. A devil that wears a man’s skin and calls himself after an ancient Israelite king. Fucking Davy. 

 


	36. The influence of the planets on the human body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regardless of how you feel about transference and the Id, it’s historical fact that Franz Mesmer was called on to testify as to the authenticity of Johan Joseph Gassner, an Austrian priest who was famous for curing people by exorcism. The lines between demons and illness, treatment and damnation, freedom and treason, medicine and theology. Well, the lines are a fucking mess. And it’s all so delicious. 
> 
> In ISITM, the power of Davy to control the minds of others, and the power of Nicky to transform his physical and mental strengths to superhuman levels, are extensions of the doctrines of Mesmer and Gassner. Mind and brain, spirit and flesh, soul and body, angels and demons and artists and madmen, those are all versions of the same fundamental weirdness that has its roots in the inescapable fact of embodied consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Q: why are you posting this on Halloween again?  
> A: I’m getting there, be patient.  
> Q: Will it be worth it?  
> A: Almost definitely not. Now please stop interrupting.  
> Q: It’s a Q&A! The whole point is to interrupt.  
> A: [Glare. Temporarily effective.]]

Q: How do you justify all the ghosts and vampires and guides and mind control in a story that’s set in the real non-magic world?

A: I’m a scientist. I am a reductionist. But the goofy truth about science is that, if you’re committed to reducing every recorded event in human history to a mapping of particles, it means you are willing to explain some really weird phenomena as physical or physiological. Ghosts and vampires aren’t much more outlandish than the rest of it.

Consciousness already makes no sense. The line between sentient and non-sentient is hard to draw. Life is a fucking mystery. Very specifically, I mean. What is the line between alive and not-alive? Until we can answer and explain the stuff we know, I’m less inclined to dismiss the stuff we don’t.

I don’t exactly believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in anything that doesn’t have a physical manifestation in atoms and quarks.

But I believe in consciousness, even though I can’t prove I’m not a brain in a vat. And I believe in life, even though I can’t prove I’m not a computer simulation. And I know that as far as physics is concerned, time should flow backwards as well as forwards. And all physical signals persist out to the edges of the universe. And the odds of there only being one universe are vanishingly small. And… Well, you get the picture.

I believe in the color red, and in my own experience of it. I believe in love and I believe in wonder and I believe in that feeling with no name that’s a mixture of gratitude and joy and quiet, of vastness and smallness and connection, that you sometimes feel in a flash when you're alone in an old forest or in the desert in the dead of night or an ocean at dawn.

It’s not just about humans. It’s physics, too. You can be precise in time or precise in space, but not in both. At its heart, this is what the last century of physics is about. Switching between dual realities, parallel ways of describing the same phenomena. Time and space, waves and particles, frequency and amplitude, complex numbers and real numbers, continuous and discrete. 

Narrative trumps everything. Experience is inference. Encoding is computing. By posing a question, we impact the answer.

The same piece of paper is both solid black and pure white, depending on who's looking at it and where they are. You see some things with absolute clarity and measurable precision, even though they're not physically there. And you fail to see other things that happen in front of your eyes even when you're awake and attentive. Once you see a form in a pattern, you can't un-see it. Everyone hallucinates all the time, filling their visual blind spot with what your visual system expects to be there. And if your brain can't reconcile the signals it's receiving, it causes physical pain (like the headache you get if you wear the wrong glasses). Not being able to arrive at a single narrative literally makes you sick (like when your vestibular and visual systems disagree, which is what causes seasickness and makes you vomit after spinning around for too long).

The human brain will protect its deepest assumptions even in the face of overwhelming physical evidence that it’s very, very wrong.

 

Q: That's nice. But what the fuck does this have to do with the story?

A: Yeah, sorry. Sometimes I get carried away.

Ghosts and vampires are vehicles for thinking about all this stuff: how different starting states can lead to similar end results, while similar starting states can diverge dramatically. Carry On was in part a spoof of the hero-villain trope, at the same time as it embraced it. And the Drarry tradition it came from is an attempt to reconcile both things: that hero-villain is so compelling, but such a stupid attempt at dichotomy.

[[insert more hand-waving bullshit here. Go get a beer or a coffee or something, and I’ll be done when you get back.]]

Thus, as I am sure I have utterly convinced you, the story of Simon and Baz participates in a long history of the love-hate relationship between narrative and dualism. In part it’s the opposition that makes them so compelling and fun to write (light and dark, alive and dead, chosen and rejected, sweet and bitter, open and closed, hopeful and jaded.) But in part, it’s the mirroring that draws us in. It’s the fact that they match. Both desperate, empty, scarred and scared. Both capable of loving in an all-consuming manner that terrifies them. Rivals, lovers, sources of salvation and objects of fierce protection.

So obviously it’s about quantum mechanics and the mystery of consciousness.

Q: For fuck’s sake, what does this have to do with why there are ghosts and vampires in your non-magic AU?

A: [[Eye roll at self. Hard to pull off.]]

I dunno. There were ghosts and vampires in Carry On. And I think the line between reality and fiction is interesting and that’s why au’s are interesting. And I like these ghosts and these vampires and the way they touch on all these things, like a form-content dance. How can things start out so different and end up so similar? How can things start out so similar and end up so different? To what extent do we have free will, and to what extent are we just the effects of causes we can’t see or control?

Lucy and Natasha start at opposite ends of a spectrum: idealist (Lucy) vs pragmatist (Natasha). But both end up leaving the people they love unprotected, and both spend the rest of eternity trying to fix it.

Davy and Nicky are two versions of a similar disorder: psychopathy (Davy) vs sociopathy (Nicky). But their relationship to the world around them is vastly different. Nicky is forced outside of society but capable of experiencing and receiving love. Davy is celebrated and empowered by society, but is utterly inhuman.

Penny is passionate and brilliant, but she's derailed by the combined forces of fear and suggestion as wielded by Davy. Agatha is superficial and unreliable, but she manages to hold on to her own life despite all the manipulation of spirits and society. She's unusually good at absorbing and reflecting the people around her and bringing them together as a result. The only way not to lose herself is to ruthlessly protect herself at other people's expense.

Setting the story in the real (non-magical) world requires that the experiences of the (living) people in the story have to be consistent with the experiences of (living) people in the real (non-magical) world.

In ISITM, everything that happens (to the living) is within the range of weird but not impossible. The reader knows that there are more forces at work, but the people in the story don't know that. So the characters are free to make up their own minds. Depending on what you think about physical determinism, they may be the only ones. Lucky fictional bastards.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s all duality, all the way down. Next to all the turtles, of course. Hence, the interview of myself with myself. Thanks, [ David Byrne. ](https://youtu.be/dE-mxVxFXLg) This one’s for you.
> 
> (Self destruct mode off)


	37. March 17th, 8 am

_March 17, 8 am_

**Simon**

When we get to the corner, Baz continues south while I turn east. I feel a pang at his absence, and I'm relieved all over again that I don’t have to leave him. He doesn't want me to. He really doesn't want me to. If I hadn't seen his face last night, I would never have been able to convince myself of it. I would have been sure that no matter how much I want to stay, the right thing to do is leave. As it is, I can believe it, but I can't understand it. I mean, don’t I have to leave him in a couple of months anyway? Does he think we're still going to be together after we graduate?

Does he _want_ to still be together after we graduate?

I try never to think about graduation. Everything past it is a fuzzy beige cloud. I can't visualize what happens next. All through high school, Penny made me focus on college. But no one spent college forcing me to focus on what comes next, and so I didn't. I don't. It's hard to really believe that there is a _next_. Graduating feels like dying. Like no one knows what happens after. Like it’s unknowable.

I can't explain this to anyone, because I know it only makes sense in my screwed up head. I don't think Penny and Baz even think about it. Or probably they do, but that's the thing. They think about easily, like its nothing. Like it’s just another semester, not the end of the known world. Well, for Penny, it really is just another semester. She took a gap year, so still has a year to go.

But Baz and I have never talked about it. And as I walk, I let myself imagine that it's because he plans to still be around. As it happens, and after it happens. I let myself imagine what it would be like if there wasn’t a looming farewell we can't escape. If there was nothing I have to run from.

I daydream as walk, imagining Baz, severe in his robes. I imagine his eyebrow raised, somehow intimidating even in the whole stupid cap and gown getup. I imagine him turning to me. I imagine the look that always enters his eyes when he sees me. The one that fills me with heat and drenches me with cold all at once. I imagine the lines in his face softening, his lips curving. I imagine the smile he lets me see for a moment, before his face goes back to its terrifying version of normal.

Before I get any farther in this embarrassingly chaste and sappy fantasy, I find myself in front of the closed door of the bakery. I feel a stab of worry about Ebb. Normally she’d be here by now. I start to unlock the door, only to find it already unlocked. That makes more sense. She's here, she just didn't feel like opening yet. So I slip through the door, but leave the front lights off. I leave the sign in the window turned to _Closed_. We’ll open when she's ready. Ebb's entitled to all the time in the world. Especially after. After last night.

The pain of it starts to strangle me again. Ebb’s face. My fault.

I take a deep breath and force myself to exhale slowly, counting to ten. That’s what Penny and I used to do. It started out as a joke. On the rare occasion that someone in high school would do or say something idiotic (ha), we would close our eyes and breathe melodramatically, nostrils flaring. I discovered that, stupid as it sounds (and looks), it actually works. Especially for stuff like this, when it's my head sending me in a spiral.

It doesn't work.

Ebb told me to leave. She doesn't want me. And she's right. I cause pain. I shouldn't be here right now. My heart rate accelerates. Counting and breathing are stupid. I'm standing here like an idiot counting and breathing when what I should be doing is leaving.

I hear Penny’s voice soothingly in my ear.

“ _When that happens, Si, just do it again. If it doesn't work the first time, do it a second time. Keep breathing slowly, keep counting.”_

So I do. I make myself do it until all I can think about is the breath as it leaves my mouth, the expansion of my lungs as I draw it back in. And then I think about Baz.

I let Baz’s words settle in me until I'm calm again. I was wrong about Baz. And Baz told me I was wrong about Ebb. And if he's right, then my leaving won't solve anything. It'll make things worse. So at the very least, I need to withstand my panic long enough to let Ebb have a say.

It was easier to agree in the abstract. In bed, with Baz’s voice warm in my ear. In the reality of the moment, though, I want to run.

I don’t.

I open the door that leads away from the little tables and empty glass cases and silent cash register. The door that leads back to the hidden universe where Ebb and I bake and talk and decorate and go through ungodly quantities of paper towels. I remind myself that there's nothing to panic about.

But as my feet pass the threshold, I discover that I am wrong. Panic is completely fucking appropriate.

 

**Ebb**

I hear Simon's footsteps and my heart falls. For the first time since I met the boy, I've been dreading his arrival.

I try to push him away with every bit of power still in me. But there's precious little of it left, isn't there. I know it well enough; there's no power without blood. Moving will make it worse, he made sure of that. All that’s left to me is to watch, helpless. Watch as Davy stands by the door, his face ugly with anticipation.

I've wisdom enough to know when I’m defeated. Doesn't stop me from feeling the fury and the fear, though. No measure of wisdom can change a heart when the heart’s right, which is as it should be. It wouldn't bother me, except. Except that I know it gives the bloody devil exactly what he wants.

Tears have been my steady companions in these long years. Now, as they fall, they do me the kindness of reminding me that I've some power left. For as long as my spirit abides, I can control the meaning of things, even if I can't change the fact of them.

I can turn the watching to witnessing.

I bear witness as the door eases open. As Davy’s grin grows wicked. As he kicks Simon’s feet out from under him, and efficiently keeps his own foot heavy on Simon's neck so the boy can't rise. Simon’s face goes strange. The furious emotions that surge through me are trebled by the testimony painted across the boy’s face. I'm witness to an evil that's transpired before. Many times.

Davy looks over at me and smiles with the smug delight of a soul who knows he’s exempt from all law, no matter how grave his trespass. The smile of a man who always wins.

“That's much better,” he says, observing my face. Noting the size of my pupils, the tremble in my hands. “However,” he adds, his voice turning conspiratorial, “as my dear mother used to say, one can never be too thorough when harvesting extra-adrenal glucocorticoids.”

His laugh is a dark thing as he bends to look Simon in the eye. He raises up the boy’s head by a fistful of hair, so he is forced to look back. Davy nods, satisfied. Then, quick as the devil he is, he slams it sharply to the ground.

“So weak, Simon,” Davy says as Simon’s body shakes briefly and then goes still. He speaks in the tone of voice one might use to say pass the salt. “But let's check and see if it turns out you aren't completely useless after all, shall we?”

He walks over to the tubes and bottles he’s arranged on the table. Blood is flowing neatly from my arm into one of them. Davy expertly extracts a small amount and adds it to the erlenmeyer flask he's set to spinning. It stands on a magnetic stirrer he’s set up beside a tiny herd of porcelain goats. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. I should be glad. But Davy turns to me with such disappointment that I feel a stab of involuntary guilt for letting him down. I shudder as I see him smile, imagining my Simon as a child being shown that face.

“Hush, Ebb, it's ok,” he soothes, setting my insides to curdling. “I knew your blood was likely to prove a poor medium. Else Nicky would've used it years ago, wouldn't he? Now don't look at me like that, darling, you'll hurt my feelings. The only difference between myself and Nicky is that he failed. Or,” he says, pretending to think, hand on chin, “I should say, succeeded incompletely.”

He smiles to himself then, a private joke. Everything is still. There's only the sound of my blood, and the shallow sound of Simon’s breathing. For a minute, for an hour, for a lifetime. Until the sound of Simon struggling to get his elbows under him catches Davy’s attention. 

He walks to Simon, helping him up gently. The fondness in the gesture is somehow worse than the violence that preceded it.

“Up you go,” he murmurs soothingly to Simon, as he helps him sit up. “I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. No point trying your blood again, is there? You and I both know how that'll go.” He chuckles warmly and ruffles Simon’s hair affectionately. “We've had times together, haven't we, son? But you're just as worthless now as ever.”

“Sorry about this,” Davy muses thoughtfully, as he pulls Simon's arms behind his back and ties him to the leg of the same table I’m tied to. “I know it’s unnecessary. I know you remember not to try and do anything. But no point in my being sloppy. You'll be a good boy for me now, though, won't you, son? The one thing I can always count on you for. To be utterly ineffectual.” Davy smiles, puts his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I don't blame you for it, Simon. I blame myself, really. You were supposed to be powerful. Your mother and I worked hard to make you. But it was pointless. _You_ were pointless.”

Davy’s hand moves to caress Simon's bloody face as he continues speaking. “It's ok, though, son. It’s not your fault that you’re nothing, that you've been nothing since the moment you were born. We’ve both tried, haven't we. You've tried. And I appreciate that.” Davy looks thoughtful as he walks over to me. He continues talking as he pulls the tubes and needles from my arm, releases the tourniquet.

“I'll leave Ebb alive for you. Let her blood determine what time she has left. And I'll let you rest,” Davy whispers, as he inserts a different needle in Simon's arm. He pushes the plunger, emptying the syringe and then neatly removing it. “As a token of my gratitude.” His voice is chillingly sincere.

Davy moves about, out of my sight. Things scrape and clatter. At some point I realize he's making tea. After a time, he pulls up a chair. He sits, gracefully sipping the tea. His voice turns briskly conversational. “Now all there is left is to wait for that talented boyfriend of yours to come try to rescue you, and we can finally put this whole bloody business to rest.” His grin is sharp. “So to speak.” And then he's silent again. 

Though the last thing I want to do is obey him, I haven't much choice in the matter. So I sit back and wait for Basilton. I wish I had some doubt that he'd come, but I don't. For better or for worse, isn't that the saying? The boys love each other. So together, we wait for the inevitable.


	38. March 17th, sometime after 10 am

_March 18th, 10-ish am_

**Simon**

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. _Sitting_ is a relative term, I guess. I’m kind of slumping? Leaning? Reclining? I play this game for a while, thinking of all the words that could describe the way I’m arranged on the floor. Feet out in front of me, along the floor. Arms behind me, held to the table by whatever Davy used. And the rest of me balanced precariously between the two. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I could find a more comfortable way to sit (slump, lean, recline, repose, tilt...) but I want to stay as alert as I can.

My memory of how I got here is fuzzy. The last thing I remember is walking to the bakery, daydreaming about Baz and graduation.

Now I’m in the bakery, tied to a table several feet away from Ebb. She’s still breathing. I think. She’s holding her arm in some contorted way, I think to slow the steady stream of blood that is leaking out of it.

Davy’s in a chair, possibly napping. But probably not. We're all just waiting. I’ve spent most of the time pretty high from whatever Davy injected me with. So I don't know what's going on. I think we're waiting for a person. I don't know why.

I use the time to ease my arms free. He didn't bother to make it very hard to undo the knots. I've never challenged him before. I can practically hear Baz’s voice whispering in my ear, “the folly of hubris,” and I smile.

I haven't spoken. I don't want Davy to know I'm awake, aware. I was lost in a bizarre dream for a long, long time. I wonder idly what he gave me. My immediate thought is to ask Penny. That may not work out. It's hard to really care right now. I should tell that to Penny too.

When I first woke up, I wasn't able to move. So there must have been a paralytic. Penny will be proud of me for keeping track of so many details. I like when Penny is proud of me. I like it best when she's proud of me in kind of a distracted way. Like, if she asks something and I say something and she nods and moves on to the next thing.

But not being able to move wasn't great. It was dark. My head hurt. It still does. I felt sticky. I still do. When I was able to move enough to open my eyes, I had to shut them again quickly. The light was blinding. The next time I opened them, I had to shut them again.

I slip back in time to that moment. In that moment, I slipped back in time, to other moments.

I’ve been asleep and now I'm awake. I had a strange dream. My arms are twisted behind my back and my head is throbbing. I don't know when he'll be back. Or if he's here right now, watching me. I think he is. I think I hear him breathing. I keep still, pretend to still be unconscious. So I can hold on to my dream a little longer. It was so vivid, like they always are.

They're usually vivid, but they're not usually this nice.

In my dream there was Penny. In my dream, I had a mom, but I called her Ebb instead of Mom. And there was a boy. A boy with dark hair and ocean eyes. And there was no Davy. And everything smelled like bread.

I know that when I open my eyes, I'll be in the basement. Or the shed. I can't remember where I am. That's not too unusual. So I keep them closed. I can still smell the bread. And I can smell my mom. Ebb. And another smell, sharp and metallic. I know that's the only one that's real.

I stay still until I'm finally ready to face whatever. I mean, ready isn't the word I guess. It's just. I have to open my eyes sometime, right? May as well be now.

But when I try, the light is so painful I have to close them again. That's fucking weird. It should be dark in here. Maybe he's sitting there with a flashlight pointed in my eyes? Waiting for me to open them? Who the fuck knows with him. If he is, he's already seen me open them. So keeping them closed would be a mistake. I brace myself. For the light, for him, for whatever's there. And I open my eyes again.

The sensation is so bizarre, it makes me feel sick. Or maybe that's just because I moved my head. But I open my eyes and I'm in my dream. Only it's turned into a nightmare. My fucking luck. I hate those dreams where you dream you wake up. But I've never had one like this.

Now my dream is tinged with blood and the sharp chemical smell of the shed. And now Davy's in it. And Ebb. But Ebb is on the floor, and she's dead. I don’t even have to think about it to know its my fault. It's my dream. Even in my fucking dreams I’m nothing but poison.

I'm dizzy and confused and hurting. I can't understand what's real. Who's real. If I'm even real. Maybe this whole thing, everything with Davy. Maybe the whole thing, maybe it's all just someone else's dream. Poor fucker. I should wake him up.

I try to move again and this has to be real because the pain is so specific. But if it's real, I killed my mother, but I don't have a mother.

A dark pit opens inside me. It's always there, somewhere. Waiting to devour me, waiting for me to fall in. I squeeze my eyes shut against it. But it's inside me. So that doesn't help. Just makes blood trickle down the side of my face.

If this is real, I don't think he's noticed that I'm awake yet. If it isn't, then he has, but it doesn't matter. I try to reason my way through it but I fail. All I'm doing is skating in a spiral around the edge of the chasm. And this time, I know there's no outrunning it. I will fall into tartarus. So I may as well jump.

I look directly into the pit. But it doesn't help. It's every bit as damning as I fear. I step off anyway. I can't escape myself. All I can do is try to fill myself with whatever I am. To figure out what I am, as myself. And fill the sucking hole at my core with all of it. With everything that defines me.

Penny is real and Ebb is real. Though she's not my mother. And Baz. Baz is real. I'm an adult. My freedom is real. The wish inside me to explode in every direction at once, that's real too. And the wish that someone could love me. And the knowledge that someone does. And the fear that their love puts them in danger. And the acceptance of that fear. And the knowledge of my own love for them. That grows and grows and steadily fills the void. Gray eyes and black hair. Eloquent eyebrows, sarcastic lips, and the smell of roasting leaves.

They fill the void and I fill it and it starts to empty of emptiness and become full. There will nothing left of me but that is ok. It will save everything that matters. The love. I'll fill myself until there's no room for the terror. Ebb will die, and I can't stop it. But I can love her. And I can hold her love for me within myself, free of doubt. When I am emptied into the filled space inside myself, I know it without doubt. She loves me. And Penny does. And Baz. Baz loves me and I love them all and I love Baz in some way that is bigger than the pit. And it's ok.

Davy is real. He's real too. He’s real and he's terrible and it's not my fault. And it's not ok, but they love me anyway. I wrap it around me as I fall.

Ebb is here, but I stay quiet. I'm not sure she could hear me even if I screamed. So

I don’t speak. I don't want Davy to know I'm awake, aware. I was lost in a bizarre dream state for a long, long time. I wonder idly what he gave me. My immediate thought is to ask Penny. That may not work out. It's hard to really care right now. I should tell that to Penny too.

There was a hole. I'm falling. I'm falling and trapped in an endless loop. But I let myself keep falling.

What did he give me? It's a good puzzle to occupy myself as I fall. When I first woke up, I wasn't able to move. So there must have been a paralytic. Penny will be proud of me for keeping track of so many details. I like when Penny is proud of me. I like it best when she's proud of me in kind of a distracted way. Like, if she asks something and I say something, and she simply nods in a way that conveys ‘ _that's sorted_ ’ and moves on to the next thing.

But not being able to move wasn't great. It was dark. My head hurt. It still does. I felt sticky. I still do. But the adrenaline must have scrubbed the drugs from my body because everything is resolving around me.

I'm here. Davy's killed Ebb. He's going to kill me. It's almost comforting. If anything, I'm disturbed by the question of why I'm not already dead. The fact that we’re waiting for something seems like a bad sign.

Not something. Someone. I sense Davy’s posture change and suddenly I know. We're waiting for Baz.

The sound of Baz’s footsteps gets clearer. He's crossing the outer room. He's agitated, walking fast.

I hear the front door open, close. I hear footsteps walking to the back. My heart flutters at the thought that it’s Baz. I stomp down hard on the feeling.

It’s not Baz. I don’t even want it to be Baz. Baz hurts. I got away, and I want to stay away. I might sleep here tonight. I have to be back early anyway. I don’t want to see him. I don’t.

I look up. It is Baz. It’s actually Baz. I struggle to remain in the present. It's not Boxing Day. We've already had the fight, already made up. Already spent months falling in love only to find out there's farther to fall. I love him, and he's here, and Davy is going to hurt him, and I am not going to fucking sit here and let this happen.

**Baz**

I meet up with Penny outside of the bakery. She starts to explain the whole thing to me again. I cut her off.

“Bunce. I trust you. I don't need to know the rest of it right now. We just need to decide what to do.”

“I wait here. You go inside,” she says, as if there's no doubt. “If you're not out in 10 minutes, I'll call 911 and come in after you.”

I'm surprised. I expected some back and forth. Some wishing for a whiteboard. A list, at the very least. But her decisiveness is reassuring. I nod. “Ok.” And then I’m walking in.

The front room is dark, though the door is unlocked. We knew it would be, since Penny saw Simon go in. When? At least a couple of hours ago. My heart is beating too fast.

There's an acrid congestion in the air, like burning rubber. I start to gag. I hold my sleeve up to my mouth and feel my way to the door that leads back. I push it open, and freeze.

Simon and Ebb are on the floor. They're dead. Fucking hell, they're dead. Davy is walking toward me. The world grows dark around the edges.

Simon, Davy and Ebb. Eyes and teeth and blood. A grotesque triptych. Davy is on me before I can react. I don't care. Until I see Simon move. He's not dead. He's so alive, I don't know how I thought he could ever die. He is burning with something that glows out of his eyes and moves his limbs with brutal grace as he swings for Davy from behind. He is terrible and beautiful and terrifying, and I feel an endless gratitude. He’s terrifying, he's beautiful, he's mine, he's alive, he's fighting. He’s alive.

Davy notices the direction of my gaze. He turns his head just as Simon’s fist connects with it, so that the punch lands with twice the force. Davy's eyes roll back and he collapses. He nearly takes me with him, but Simon catches me before I can fall. He pulls me forward and I wrap my arms around him gingerly. I don't know where he's been hurt. But he pulls me to him tightly, and my fear eases. I let myself sink into the hug. I let myself return it with the same force.

We stand for a minute, holding each other tightly. Then the rush of adrenaline abandons Simon all at once. The sudden weight in my arms threatens to pull us both down.

I manage to lower Simon to the floor slowly, safely. I'm totally overwhelmed. All I want to do, all I can do, is rest my hand on his chest. I grow calm as I feel the rhythm of his heart and the harmonizing rhythm of his lungs, as his chest rises and falls.

His eyes open and he whispers frantically “Ebb. Baz, Ebb. You have to help Ebb.” I snap out of the fugue and realize that Davy may be (dead?) out of commission, but we're all far from safe.

The ovens are smoking with whatever Davy had put in them. Whatever is causing the chemical smoke that's growing thicker. As I look around the room, I realize with sickening clarity what is going to happen.

We are all going to burn.

The space between the giant ovens is laced with a strange array of rope and kindling and glass jars filled with what I imagine is something highly flammable. The slowly burning shit that's filling the room with smoke is some kind of timing device. So Davy could get himself out of here before everything else is incinerated.

I start towards the nearest oven. I need to try and stop the heat before it can explode as flame. Simon doesn't understand why I'm moving in the wrong direction, away from Ebb, away from him. There's no time to explain. I wince at the sound of betrayal in his voice as he screams. “Baz! You have to help Ebb!” He grabs me with a shocking strength, and I am caught. I don't want to hurt him. I have to move.

I can see the rags closest to the oven start to smoke. I think I can still make it if I throw him off. I pause long enough to say “Simon, trust me. I'll explain later,” as I prepare to throw him off me. I hesitate again . I can't do it, I can't hurt him when he's so hurt, even if it's to save him.

As I hear a scratching laugh grow louder behind me, I realize Davy's not remotely dead. I almost start laughing myself. Have movies taught me nothing? Like: Never ignore the not-necessarily-dead evil villain, because he will rise at exactly the worst moment. I'm going to die in a cliché. Simon and Ebb are going to die because of my hesitation. Ebb might already be dead.

The cliché shifts into an alternate cliché as I hear Penny scream behind me. I'd forgotten about her, too. But apparently it’s been ten minutes (there's no way it's been more than two) and she's grabbed Ebb’s marble rolling pin. She brings it down with a wonderfully sickening crunch, as it lands directly on the back of Davy's head. I feel a flash of absurd regret that Davy must be dead this time. Regret, because that was far too kind an end for him.

But. Then. Then, I turn to see that I'm too late to stop the rag from finally igniting. No way to stop the flame that starts to dance its flickering way towards hell. There's no way to save Ebb. All I can hope to do is stop the fire long enough to save Simon and Penny. I lunge for the oven just as the door bursts open behind me. A strange figure lopes in. I've never seen anything like it before, but I recognize him immediately.

It's Nicky.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you did decide to read Simon's part, you probably noticed two places where paragraphs repeat. That's not an error. He's caught in a time loop, in his head. I'm trying to capture a flicker of non-linear time.
> 
> The first loop is contained within this chapter. The second time loop brings Simon back to Boxing Day (December 26), when Baz came to find him after their horrible Christmas and they passed a threshold they didn't realize they were standing beside. 
> 
> I will add, since it's clear in my head but probably no where else, that the sort of fugue memory loop Simon enters brings him back to at actual experience from his childhood when he was in the shed out behind the house after one of the times that Davy had been trying to use fear and pain to fill Simon's blood with useful chemicals that he could harvest and use to prolong his life, in the kind of sci-fi vampirism Davy is into. This happened a lot, which I tried to explain in Davy's backstory. The sharp metallic smell of the mini chemistry lab Davy used to extract adrenaline and epinephrine and cortisol from Simon's terror-enriched blood is how Simon knew he was in the shed, and not the basement, because the shed was where Davy had his alchemy/chemistry lab set up.


	39. March 17th, 11 am

_March 17 th, around 11 am_

**Simon**

I must still be drugged. I’m having another one of those dreams where I think I've woken up, but I haven't. I dreamt Baz was here, I dreamt that I punched Davy. It felt so good. I dreamt Baz was here but he wouldn't help Ebb and he was going the wrong way. Now the dream grows wild. I see a terrifying specter float through the little door that separates the public part of the bakery from the private one. The monster that emerges is impossibly tall, with translucent skin and red eyes and enough strength to hurl a fifty pound sack of… flour? at… Baz? It's a typical dream scenario, things making no sense to the point of being almost funny. A vampire fighting with flour as his weapon of choice. Atypical is my ability to think words like “typical” and “atypical” in the middle of a nightmare.

It's too weird to be anything but a dream. But fuck if it isn't convincing. The vampire-thing keeps throwing sacks of flour everywhere and then Baz’s arms are around me, pulling me up. Baz is shouting at the monster and the monster has Ebb but then I realize Baz isn't shouting at the monster at all, he's agreeing with it about something and how can Baz know the monster who's taking Ebb? I try to struggle out of Baz's arms to save Ebb and I can't understand what is happening. My heart is breaking because I don’t understand why Baz would betray us like this. Why would he kill Ebb, why would he bring this monster here?

I remind myself it's just a dream, I say it over again: just a dream, just a dream. But it's unlike any dream I've ever had. So instead of struggling with dream-Baz I struggle with the dream itself. I try to wake up. I try to hit myself against things to wake myself. It doesn't work. Nothing around me changes. Until it does, and Baz is gone, and suddenly Penny is there. She's whispering instead of shouting and she's holding my face and she's looking at me that way she does when I'm being ridiculous and I just need to listen to her and everything will be ok. I don't know what she's saying. I let her lead me outside when I can hear her say that Ebb is ok, I’m ok, Baz is ok, it’s over, everything is ok. And I believe her. I believe dream-Penny. Because if there's one person on this fucked up planet I know I can trust, awake or dreaming, it's Penny.

 

**Penny**

Simon follows me outside, thank… fuck. I don't fucking know who or what to thank right now. Not god. Not Ebb’s metaphorical triplets. They can all fucking go to hell. Or whatever. Anyway. Simon's outside with me, and the man who must be Nicky has gotten Ebb out, and Baz is dragging a body outside and suddenly I start to vomit. I fall on my knees and feel my body try to reject itself, because. Because. Because I killed a person, a human, I took someone's life, I'm a murderer and. I liked it. I liked killing him. I wanted to be the one to kill him. I crushed his skull and he fell and my body tries to get rid of itself and I keep convulsing long past the point where there's anything left for me to expel.

 

**Baz**

Nicky may be insane but he's a genius. A bizarrely tall, strong genius. Who immediately put out every flame by suffocating it in flour. It won't keep the ovens from burning, but it buys us enough time to get out before everything else catches fire.

Penny was able to calm Simon enough to get him out of there. Later I'll have to work out why he fought like a rabid animal to get away from me. But for now, I just need to make sure he's alive.

I drag Davy's body with me as I run out of the bakery. I don't really know why, except that I'm not ready for this to be over for him. I don't know what I think I'm going to do, beat a corpse? But I don't have to think. Not right now. Do. Just do. And I do.

Penny is vomiting on the pavement. Simon is beside her, rubbing her back and whispering to her. I can't imagine that the convulsive retching is strategic on her part (though I wouldn't put it past her), but it's having a calming effect on Simon as he focuses on helping her. I take the moment to check Davy’s body. I probably shouldn't feel as vindictively relieved as I do when I see his chest rising and falling, and feel his pulse steady beneath my fingers. Not a corpse, then. Just unconscious. Not beyond hurting. Not yet.

 

 **Simon**  

Penny’s just calming down when the ambulances and fire trucks arrive in a vicious cacophony of sirens and screeching tires. Penny and Baz and I are all covered in blood. And Davy. Davy is on the ground covered in blood. But they load him on a stretcher and into an ambulance, and I know then that he's alive. My mind goes blank as they drive him away. I still don't know if I'm dreaming or awake. I let them put me on a stretcher too. I watch Baz and Penny follow as someone loads me onto a different ambulance. I lie inside. Alarms wail outside. Everything is screaming. I’m empty.

 

**Penny**

Simon is helping me and I feel like shit. First because I hate vomiting and second because I'm making Simon take care of me when it should be the other way around. And also because I'm a murderer. That should really be first on the list, except I still can't get my head around it. My body is reacting but my mind is less sure. I’ve fantasized about killing Davy for so long, that I don't trust myself to judge whether it was actually justified in the situation or not.

I realize that I won't be the one doing the judging anyway, as police and EMTs arrive in a swarm. Baz is miraculous in the ensuing chaos. Even covered in blood and flour and whatever the fuck else he's got all over him, his authority is unquestionable. The police listen to him and accept whatever he's telling them. So I watch as they handcuff Davy to a stretcher and load him in an ambulance. Baz and I get into another ambulance with Simon, who's oddly compliant.

And finally, we’re leaving that incomprehensible hell. The nearest hospital is just over the cliff, but you can't drive through the park so it still takes a few minutes to get there.

It's enough time for my exhausted brain to work out that if Davy was handcuffed to the stretcher, he's not dead. And if he’s not dead, I didn’t kill him. And if I didn’t kill him, I am not a murderer. But if I didn’t kill him, he’s still alive. I look up at Baz, who nods as I silently ask. He's holding Simon’s hand and all three of us are eerily silent.

 

**Baz**

The spell is broken as soon as we reach St Luke's, and the ambulance doors open. Simon immediately starts protesting that he doesn't need to be on a fucking stretcher, and shouting at everyone who tries to help him and asking where the fuck is Ebb. I’m fairly certain that smiling is not appropriate to the situation, but I can't help it. I'm so relieved that Simon is Simon again.

My smile fades when they try to admit him to the hospital, and I see his face go pale. Penny starts arguing with him, insisting that he listen to the doctors and reminding him (in case he's somehow fucking forgotten) that he doesn't even know what Davy drugged him with and he needs to be observed, he needs to stay in the hospital.

All of which is very sensible. But. I see his eyes flicking around nervously. Taking in the police scattered through the emergency room. Flicking from the doors that are always monitored, to the few people surrounded by uniforms and handcuffed to their stretchers. One of whom is Davy. I know Simon is safe here, and I know Penny is right. But I also know how much a hospital can feel like a prison. Simon's not going to be in rehab. But I know Simon well enough to know how terrifying it must be for him. I imagine what it would be like for him to be held against his will, kept hidden again behind closed doors. I imagine everything that will be re-created in his mind if he’s forced to stay, a prisoner unable to leave until someone lets him go. I imagine how the words must sound to him: “for your own good.” Fuck anyone who thinks I’m about to let that happen to him again, even if this time the intention really is to help him.

So I walk up and smoothly interrupt.

“Mr. Snow has made it clear that he objects to being admitted. If you decide to admit him against his will, our lawyer will submit a petition to have him released within the hour. Generally it can take several days before a judge responds, but I assure you that will not be what happens in this case. So, unless you are prepared to defend your decision in court rather immediately, I have to ask that you release him into my care.”

The doctor looks disgusted. Penny looks shocked. And Simon looks so grateful and relieved that I'm filled with fury at the world that keeps doing this to him. I take his hand and squeeze it gently. I don't hug him or yell at the doctor or punch anyone. Though it’s really fucking tempting. I remain standing calmly, my eyes fixed on the doctor’s. He and I are perfectly aware that they are legally allowed to hold Simon for three days before having to defend their position in court. We both know that at worst, my threat amounts to a lot of paperwork and lost time.

I rely on the things other things I know. Like every other doctor in this emergency room, this one is exhausted, overextended, and smart. All he needs is a reason to believe that it is ethically responsible to let Simon return home. And a calm, competent and determined person who accepts responsibility for Simon's welfare gives him that option. So that is what I give him.

As the doctor finally nods and signs some papers, Simon leans into me with exhausted relief. I feel validated. Which is a kind of shitty, self-absorbed thing to feel in this situation. But it’s never been a secret that I am a shitty, self-absorbed person. The thing is, that the past two days have transformed what I generally consider to be the worst parts of myself into something else. Something powerful, something I can use to protect the people I love instead of protecting myself at their expense.

The same goes for the unsavory nepotism that provides me with access to a network of the most powerful people in the city. Every party I’ve endured at the insistence of my despicable father, every insincere smile and shallow conversation, is redeemed by this opportunity to use it all to protect Simon.

Thus, despite the utter shit of the situation, I feel strangely warm and happy as we leave the hospital. It takes three quick phone calls for me to ensure that we will not be bothered any further today. We can’t permanently avoid giving statements to the police and answering their questions. But it will happen tomorrow, in the relative comfort of a private boardroom, instead of today, in the harsh chill of the crowded streets.

 

 **Penny**  

I want to strangle Baz when he starts shoring up Simon’s paranoia about the hospital. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he’s trying to help. But Simon is going to have to stay in the hospital overnight, and we should be doing everything we can to make him feel safe. There’s no way they’re releasing him before tomorrow, and there’s no chance that he’ll be allowed to leave before being questioned by the police.

To my complete shock, the doctor just nods at Baz and signs the release forms. I am bewildered and then angry when the various representatives of law and order move deferentially to allow us to pass, after a few hushed conversations and brief phone calls. I try to remind myself that this is all for Simon’s good, but it’s difficult. This is the same above-the-law bullshit that made it possible for Davy get away with everything to begin with. I want no part of it, even if this time, it’s working in our favor.

I blink in the dwindling light of the streets outside the hospital. It’s already late afternoon. The day has passed in a panicked haze, and I have no idea what’s supposed to happen next. We should probably all eat, but the thought of food is enough to turn my stomach. Simon looks utterly lost. It hurts to see him like this. Baz starts to walk, his arm around Simon. I stay exactly where I am. I see Baz start to turn, and prepare myself for a fight.

But Baz’s face is soft with concern when he turns to me, and his voice is sincere when he asks, “hey, Pen, you ok?” They start to walk back toward me. I feel my eyes tearing and my hands shaking. I’m furious with Baz and furious with myself and furious with the world. My fury transforms to shock when Baz lets go of Simon and wraps his arms around me. He’s a surprisingly good hugger. I find myself sobbing into his shoulder and letting him hold me as I shake. I am so fucking angry. 

“You are such a pompous, entitled, self-important asshole,” I mutter at him, pulling away. It would be more convincing if I wasn’t still leaning into him. I hear Simon laugh beside me, and Baz pulls him in and the three of us stand, laughing and crying and holding each other up. I try to resist the surreal terror that threatens to overwhelm me.

“He’s not dead,” I finally whisper.

“He’s not dead,” Baz quietly agrees.

“So. What happens now?” I ask.

“Now we go to Ebb’s.” It’s obvious once Baz says it. But Simon’s face contorts with panic and guilt.

“Where is Ebb? What happened to her? What happened back there? I. I dreamt. Or I saw? Or there was. I must have? Because it couldn’t. But she. It took her. I saw it,” and Simon is shaking his head as if that will force the words into order. Baz takes Simon’s left hand in his right hand, and my right hand in his left, and starts to explain about Nicky as we turn and walk back down the cliff to Ebb’s apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: metaphorical triplets (and, in earlier chapters, things like Ebb's musings on the goddess rolling all six of her eyes). They're referring to the three faced goddess, who has a billion other manifestations, like the maid-matron-crone, or the furies, or the valkyries. Etc. I realize that just because she (they? it?) have a comfy home in my particular imagination, it might be a confusingly unspecified reference for people. So, voila! It's been specified! And thus I banish all confusion.


	40. March 17th, 6 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon, Baz and Penny start out in the cold and end up in a cuddly nest. Nicky reaches an understanding of sorts with Penny, and Simon finally believes that Ebb loves him. What's a little murder and occult in light of all that?

**_March 17, 6 pm_ **

 

**Baz**

As we walk, I start to explain to them about Nicky, but quickly realize that I have no idea what the fuck to say. I'm trying to reassure Simon that the thing he saw that grabbed Ebb was doing it to help her. He's understandably skeptical. I know he wants to believe me. But when I start to tell him how I knew it was Nicky, I stumble. It's not exactly a reassuring story. And I haven't let myself think about it. I haven't even had to stop myself from thinking about it. Until now, the day has been a series of consciousness-filling crises.

But now that I'm not faced with an immediate challenge to conquer, I am lost in the unresolved mystery of the morning. It has been easy to dismiss the voice on the phone as a lunatic. But Nicky was real. And he showed up. To save his sister, not us. But saved us all in the bargain. And he was fast and smart and controlled. Nothing at all like a deluded psychotic who whispers to the dead and believes they whisper back. 

In which case. I have to take what he said about my mother seriously. When you take away the impossible, whatever's left is the truth, however improbable. Funny that I can't remember if that was Einstein or Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe it was Spock? Fiction is its own form of science.

But I'm not quite there yet. A series of disturbing coincidences isn’t actually impossible. So which is less probable? I realize I've stopped talking. Neither Penny nor Simon has tried to prompt me to keep talking. They just hold on to me and let me retreat into silence as we get closer to Ebb’s. I want to know and I don't want to know. But I know enough to know that there's no avoiding the knowing that's coming. So I let myself behave like a proper point in a triangle, and rest my arms on my other 2/3rds.

 

**Simon**

Despite myself, I'm terrified to face Ebb. I still don't know what she intended when she asked me to leave last night. And between then and now, my father tied her to… I don’t want to go there. I don't want to remember what just happened until I have to. I just need to get through each new thing that comes at me until it's over. I don't even need to know how I’ll know it’s finally ‘over.’

We got out of the bakery. We got out of the hospital. I have Baz and Penny. Now all I need to face is Ebb.

 

**Penny**

 The scene that unfolds when we get to Ebb’s apartment is surreal. It's bizarre to think that yesterday was the first time I'd ever been here, because yesterday is so long ago right now. The tree is still there, and the painted scenes of goats, and the old school phone booth.   The flour-throwing vampire from the bakery is sitting on Ebb’s couch, drinking tea. He stands up when we walk in. He seems even taller here. He has a smirk on his face and an eyebrow raised. I wonder if Baz notices. I stifle a giggle.

 “If you sorry lot wake my sister, I will crush your bones to powder and drink them in my tea,” Nicky hisses; his expression is one of pure malice. Which is why it's so disconcerting to see his face flush with embarrassment as Ebb calls out from wherever she is,

 “Nothing left to wake after your carrying on, now, is there, Nicky? And I'll have you know that you're free to consume most anything here, but not my guests.” I fucking hope she's kidding. What is this guy?

Simon looks up at the sound of Ebb’s voice and freezes. I can tell he wants to go find her. But he stands still, looking at each of us. Waiting for permission? Or waiting for someone to stop him? Before I can figure it out, Ebb’s voice rings down the hall again.

“Simon, love, don't you let Nicky act the master. You're as much my kin as he is. Now come back here so I can see for myself that you're ok. That Nicky didn't lie to me when he said you walked out of there on your own two feet. I'm not quite up for walking yet myself.”

 I idly wish I had a time lapse camera to capture Simon's face as it shifts between terror and relief. Nicky makes a show of glaring at him, but moves aside so Simon can run down the hall to find Ebb.

 

I roll my eyes as I watch Baz and Nicky engage in some sort of threatening condescension competition. It clicks for me then. They're so alike. I can apply everything I know about Baz to Nicky. So it's not quite an impulse when I walk over to the glowering giant and wrap my arms around him in a fierce hug.

Nicky turns to stone for a moment. And then, slowly, his hand comes down and awkwardly pats my head. He's nearly two feet taller than I am, so I don't bristle at the gesture as much as I normally would. There's not much else he can reach on me when I'm hugging him like this.

“Thank you, Nicky,” I say, standing back and looking up at him. I don't try to control the shake in my voice, or pretend that I have a fucking clue how to say any of this. “We would have… He would have… I… You…”

 He gives me a surprised, crooked half-grin and seems about to say something. But then he stops and lifts his hand to his own face in shock. His fingers trace the shape of his mouth as though it just appeared in his face this moment. I can't hold back my curiosity.

“What is it?” I ask.

 He blinks, like he's forgotten I was standing there. His face quickly returns to a Baz-worthy mask of condescending malice. It doesn't match his voice, which shakes a little as he replies,

 “I didn't know I could still do that.” He doesn't elaborate. I think he means smiling. He had some kind of _before_ , and some kind of _after_ , and between the two, lost the capacity to smile. Somewhere in my mind, things are falling into place. Davy was involved in some sort of creepy voodoo-science mix. Nicky used to worship him, then disappeared as if dead for decades. I try to stifle my impatient urge to just start questioning him.

But I fail. I can't stand to only half understand something.

 “What else,” I ask.

 Nicky stops and looks down at me. He's not smiling, but his voice is normal as he replies “What do you mean, lass?” It's so gentle that I blink. But I persist.

 “You're disturbingly strong, unreasonably tall, and surprised that you can smile. What are the other effects? Of… whatever it is you’ve done. Whatever Davy was trying to do.”

 He looks at me shrewdly. He seems to come to some sort of decision. He sits back down, and starts to answer my questions. I feel strangely proud for having been judged worthy.

 “Not a one to blame for the tall-height but me mum and me pa,” he explains. I'm struck by his strange choice of words, and his rough accent. It makes me wonder if he's simply not spoken to anyone in the twenty years since he left.

 I’m fairly sure I haven’t spoken aloud. Nevertheless, he turns to me and answers. “Aye. Spoke to naught but the goats most days since the falling out. Near on two and twenty years.”

 He waits for me to ask, but I don't. Which seems to be the right call, because Nicky half nods and then continues.

 “The Process can't change what's built in the bones. Height’s immune. But the strength, that's one that changes. Eyes too. Ability to read people’s minds. T’ain't much to that one. Most people's minds are written clear enough on their faces.” As Nicky speaks, I think of Ebb’s almost spooky ability to read people. What Simon calls her witch powers. Nicky nods and responds again to my unspoken thoughts.

 “See, like what y’ did just now. Y’r brows furrowed an’ y’r eyes opened in this way. That means you understand. Y’r head nodded ever so slightly, to say as how you agree. Then y’r eyes flicked to where you know Ebb to be. Add that to what I know all of my own, and it's no trick to know you're thinking:” (and here he puts on a shockingly accurate American accent) “Yes, I believe that, especially from Ebb’s brother, seeing as how she's practically a witch herself that way.’” I smile. This is awesome. Nicky nods towards Baz and adds “Don't always work, like with those trained to keep an empty face. A good skill to have. Our kind learn that one early on.”

 I'm still not sure who he means by “our kind,” but everything else he's saying is interesting enough that I manage to resist the urge to interrupt and ask. I do, however, note the slight blush creeping up Baz’s neck. I can't tell if he's flattered or embarrassed to be judged as able to clear his thoughts from his face. Come to think of it, I guess that's the point.

“That's the short of it,” Nicky grumbles, apparently having decided that the conversation is over. “That's how a monster’s made. I've made it my business to keep far away from what's no longer mine. And I’ll be leavin’ again, soon as I'm sure that -”

 He's interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. All three of us jump a little at Ebb’s voice. “You're not a monster, Nicky. Never have been. And there'll be no more talk of leaving,” Ebb pauses to look pointedly at Simon as she adds with authority, “not from a one of you.”

 Simon’s sitting on the arm of Baz’s chair now. His arms are wrapped around Baz’s chest and his chin rests softly on Baz’s shoulder, so their cheeks just touch and their hair mingles. I feel a rush of something warm dancing through my heart. Something feels complete. Three rings of three.

The moment is broken almost immediately by Nicky’s roar. “You're not to be walking about yet, Ebeneza, and you know it full well.”

 Ebb just swats his hand away. “I do indeed know full well how you think of it,” she teases him, “which is why I had to ask Simon here to help me down the hall.” She does let Nicky help her into one of the cozy armchairs, though she rolls her eyes at him in fond exasperation as he fusses. She uses it as an excuse to grab his arm and pull him down to the arm of her chair, a strange mirror of Simon and Baz.

“Nicky,” Ebb says. Gentle, wondering.

“You smiled again,” I muse out loud. “What made you think you couldn't?”

I don't flinch or stand down when everyone looks at me reproachfully. “I’m serious,” I repeat. “Which things are real? About the transformation? Do you even know?” Nicky just shakes his pale head at me, pink eyes narrowed.

Simon looks at me in horror. “Penny,” he mouths. “What the fuck?”

 “Nicky and I have an understanding,” I have the cheek to say, winking at Nicky and enjoying the blush that races across his face. “But it’s fine. We can continue the conversation a different time.”

I’m annoyed not to be answered, but I know I'm lucky to have heard as much as I have already. I'll trust Ebb to make sure Nicky’s around long enough time for me to get answers. It's not purely due to a selfish desire to satisfy my curiosity, though that is a force that's stronger than perhaps it should be. It’s also that I know how monsters wither in the light. I know no better light than the relentless exchange of questions and answers. The poor guy has been treating himself as a monster for decades, when as far as I can tell, the only person he’s ever really hurt is himself. I mean, narcissist, yeah. Immature teenager when he was an immature teenager? Sure. More motivated that the average guy to see how far he can push the envelope of mortality? No doubt. But monster? Only in his own mind.

 And yeah, fine. I'm fucking curious.

 

 **Simon**  

I’m relieved as fuck that Ebb is ok. But I’m terrified of Nicky. I can’t understand what the hell is going through Penny’s head as she teases him, as though he’s a kid in one of her seminars and not a terrifying not-quite-human. But what the fuck do I know? Ebb treats him like a particularly silly child too. And the guy saved all of us. And the whole universe is so fucking surreal right now that I want to tell it sternly to go sit in a corner and think about what it’s done.

Ebb is ok. Baz was right. And now Baz has gone silent in that way that he has. All I want to do is wrap him up and rock him in my arms and whisper to him until he smiles again. How can anyone be so unaware that they’re a hero? 

Penny catches my eye while Nicky and Ebb are bickering adorably about nonsense. Penny looks at Baz, and then at me, and I’m filled with a wave of gratitude for my brilliant best friend who understands everything ten minutes before I do and then waits for me to catch up. I keep my arms around Baz while she starts plotting with Ebb about what kind of take-out we should order for dinner.

 First Penny has to convince Nicky that it’s really over for tonight. That Baz sorted things out so that the police are not about to come banging down the door. He looks over at Baz and cocks an eyebrow, and all of us start laughing. Nicky quickly scolds Ebb for wearing herself out, and she laughs even harder at that, and Nicky looks lost and heartbreakingly confused.

Penny’s stare has become pointed, and she finally just says to Ebb, “Hey, is there a place we can wash up? I can set up the seamless order while the boys get sorted and then we can switch. I know what they like anyway.” 

“Aye, child. Simon’s room should do,” Ebb says, as though Penny’s asked a forgivably stupid question. And my heart sinks but I try not to let it. Of course Ebb needs to rest and we’ve already stayed too long and she probably shouldn’t even be out here in the living room (or goat field or whatever the fuck this place is). I start to scramble guiltily to my feet, getting ready to go back to my room. But apparently they’re all having a conversation that’s flown so far over my head I didn’t even know I’d missed it. A feeling I’m used to when I hang out with this particular group. 

“I can show them to the room, Ebb, don’t you even think of rising,” Nicky warns as he stands up. Ebb and Penny set to plotting out food, and Nicky turns to me expectantly. I don’t know what he wants.

“Well,” he says to me, impatient. “If it’s a formal invitation y’r waiting on, you best give up on that now.” Penny is already swiping through her phone. Baz is standing too. So I pretend that I have a fucking clue as to what’s going on, and follow Nicky down a separate hallway to yet another door. He heads straight back to Ebb, leaving me and Baz in the hallway, confused. Or at least, I’m confused.

“What the fuck was that all about?” I ask. Baz is quiet, too quiet. But he still smiles. “Penny owes me $10,” he says. And that pisses me off, just a little.

“Well, would you care to fill me the fuck in, seeing as how everyone else in Manhattan is perfectly fucking aware of what the fuck is going on?” I don’t usually curse quite this much unless I’m having sex. Or really stressed out. Or just talking in my own head. By process of elimination, I brilliantly deduce that I am about to collapse with anxiety. Baz just nods at the door in front of us, and stares at me pointedly until I open it.

 

 **Baz**  

How can someone be so sharp and so thick at the same time? Simon has this complete blind spot for anything that implies he's loved and wanted. He's an idiot, but he's my idiot. So I pull him gently through the door.

It's more of a suite than a room. There's a sitting area and a separate bedroom and a bathroom. There's even a mini kitchen with a small fridge and cabinets stocked with foods Simon likes.

She must have had this built out for him. Manhattan apartments don't generally contain miniature sub-apartments off a door in the hall. Nor do they usually giant windows that make you feel like you're outdoors. Or sliding glass doors that lead into a little walled garden. Or steps cleverly built into the back of the sitting room, up to a loft that gets the best of the sunlight flooding through the windows. The kind of place where Simon can be safely inside but feel like he’s safely outside. Let it never be doubted that Ebb pays attention to detail. She’s put a computer, an iPhone, a backpack and a wallet full of cash on a side table. In case he finds himself running away from our dorm with no time to grab anything. There's no way she managed to do that since yesterday afternoon. She knew. She must have known. She knew this was going to happen, and she planned for it. 

“I don't think we're supposed to be in here,” Simon says anxiously, just as I’m smiling at the two dozen rolls of paper towels I notice on a high shelf in the kitchen. Simon’s endless fear makes me want to laugh and cry and commit murder. Which is more or less how the past two days have made me feel most of the time.

“Seriously, Baz, I know you trust Nicky and he just saved all our lives and apparently Penny’s his new best friend, but... And… Ebb clearly said we need to go back to our dorm. I mean, you were there. You heard her. We’re not supposed to be in here.” He’s pleading now. He's so upset that for a second I wonder if he's just pulling my leg. But his face is red and he's very obviously trying not to cry, and it's killing me.

I take his face gently in my hands, and kiss him. He smiles, the shy half grin that never fails to melt my heart, and I breathe a sigh of relief. When he's really far gone, that approach doesn't go well. So I kiss him again, quickly, softly. And I try to explain it to him.

“Ebb doesn’t want you to leave, Simon. She wasn’t trying to throw you out last night, either. She means _this_ room. Not our dorm room. She means that she set up a room. For you. This is _your_ room.”

 

**Simon**

 I look at him blankly as I try to recompute the relevant sentences from the past twenty-four hours. I literally have to sit down. It's obvious in retrospect. And apparently it was obvious to everyone but me.

“You're going to tease me about this forever,” I groan, wanting to avoid the real subject. I'd rather rehash my well-known capacity for stupidity than wrap my head around the idea that I have a room. A place. Not a dorm. An actual place. It's too much to process.

 But Baz looks hurt. His face pales. Belatedly, I remember that this is a sore point for him. For us. The idea that he’s mean. That he’s mean to me, specifically. Fuck. That is not at all what I was trying to do. I am forever an idiot. I stand back up, trying to fix it, mumbling something about how I know, I don't think he would. It's hard to say I was just kidding now that it's obvious how not-funny it was. I brace for the coldness that usually accompanies this particular fight. He will retreat into the cruelty, sneer and say something awful, to prove he's as bad as I think, that he's worse. And then I’ll try to explain it's _not_ what I think, and then he’ll laugh in this totally not funny way and ask what the fuck did I mean, and then…

Actual Baz interrupts the conversation I'm having with Imaginary Baz. He doesn't even say anything, he just wraps me in a hug and kisses the top of my head. He's such a good hugger. You'd think he'd be a terrible hugger. He's so tall and crisp, sharp and angled. But you'd be wrong. He's the world's best hugger. So I lean into this hug, and slowly my thoughts quiet down. I’ve landed up in a reality that is far better than the mess in my head. I try to remember, to let it fill me, to let it in. To remind myself to give reality a chance.

I don't know how long we stand like that. Eventually my stomach grumbles and I discover that I'm hungry. Baz laughs and points out the little kitchen I hadn't even noticed. It's neatly stocked with anything that won't rot.  I grab some pretzels and a jar of peanut butter. Baz raises his damn eyebrow at me, and reaches behind me to pick up a little jar. I breathe him in as he leans over me. But then he's standing straight again and smiling wickedly.

“Let the peanut butter vs. marmite battle commence!” he declares.

 

**Baz**

I may have grown up in the States, but I'm not a complete heathen. I am appropriately disgusted by peanut butter, and equally enchanted by marmite. Simon has decided that this is a grand metaphor for cultural relativism and tolerance. Only he could find metaphors in food. I do see his point, in a way. The two spreads fill the same niche in the food culture of the U.S. and the U.K. They each serve as a ubiquitous bedrock of food. They are each beloved by every child in their domain, and reviled by every child in the opposite camp.

 But it is at this point that my point of view diverges from Simon’s. Where he sees equality and validation, I simply see further evidence of the depravity of the American palette, and the refinement of the European one. Like anything else between us, it became a competition. Who can cite more evidence to support their claims. Who can consume greater quantities of their favored condiment. It's not difficult to guess who generally wins each side of that challenge.

 The normalcy of eating together, the comfort of fighting over nothing, and the warmth of our hands as they touch while we build our pretzel sandwiches, all combine to lift some of the heaviness from the air. Simon's skin recovers some of its normal color. My hands stop shaking.

 And then suddenly I'm overwhelmed by the implications of that little jar of marmite. Every detail of this space was thought out lovingly by Ebb. She prepared a haven for Simon, not knowing when or if he'd ever see it. And she put marmite in the kitchen. Which could only be for me. Simon and I have joked about it often enough within her earshot that she knows exactly how we each feel about the topic. And thus, the fact of her placing it here, in the midst of all the things Simon finds comforting, only makes sense on the assumption that I am one of those things. That I make Simon feel safe. And if Ebb thinks it, it's true.

It's the most certain I've ever been that I am something good in Simon's life. That for whatever reason, every fucked up thing about me is muted by some force that renders me good. Good for him, good in his eyes, just. Good.

Admittedly, I might be reading too much into a small jar of fermented yeast. But the warmth of it wraps around me and without quite realizing it, I find myself crying onto his shoulder while he traces soothing circles on my back. I feel like I should apologize. I hate when I feel like I should apologize and I know there’s nothing to apologize for. Maybe for not having told him yet, about what happened at the bank. Or maybe it’s for wanting to tell him about what happened at the bank. For wanting to insert myself, when this is about him, not me. Or maybe because I’m angry that he hasn’t asked. I know apologizing when you’re angry doesn’t make sense, but nothing about love makes sense. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against my hair, and it’s almost enough. I get ready to sit up, to pull back, to get myself the fuck together. But then his hand pauses, and his voice continues. “And, um, I wanted… I mean, I was. Fuck. I’m not. Ugh. I hate.” I swallow the desire to snap at him to use his words. My anger isn’t fair. But I don’t help him, either. I wait. He tries again.

“I’m sorry. I hate when I get like this. I’m trying not to be like this. But that’s not even. That isn’t what…” then he takes a breath and speaks quickly, “Baz, you don’t have to tell me and I promise I won’t be mad and I don’t want to push you if you don’t want…”

“For fuck’s sake,” I finally growl, sitting back up, leaning away from him. “Spit it out.”

 He blinks and I immediately feel terrible. But then he smiles and says “yeah, fair enough,” and something loosens. Then he looks at me and it’s easier like this, looking at each other. “Baz, whenever you’re ready…” I roll my eyes. “It’s just. I want to know what happened at the bank. I know it was something, I can see it in your face. And I know you haven’t told me and maybe I shouldn’t ask. And I probably shouldn’t ask because then it’s like you’re not telling me if you don’t tell me. And why would you tell me? But I want you to. I want you to tell me what happened and I want you to let me… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to want. I don’t know what’s ok to want. But I guess I want it anyway, for you to tell me, for you to. To tell me. I guess. Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know…”

I wonder how often this happens. That I get angry at him for something I’ve created. I create boundaries and rules, and that way I can always be angry. Angry if he crosses them, angry if he doesn’t. And it’s worse than that, isn’t it. I don’t even let him be the one who crosses or doesn’t cross the lines. I get angry at a version of him that’s all inside my own head. So it doesn’t matter if he’s really there or not. And maybe that’s the point? But I don’t need to know right now. Right now I need to free him from all the twisted confused misdirections, of shame and fear and the attempt to love despite that. I lean my head towards his, rest my forehead on his, and slowly move towards him until he stops talking and we just breathe each other’s breath for a minute. Then he wraps his arms around my waist and I wrap mine around his shoulders and we let whatever just happened pass.

“This is what I propose,” I find myself saying. “In light of the almost farcical level of fucked up that these past two days have reached, let’s agree that we’re both going to make a bloody mess of things and it’s ok.”

 

**Simon**

 I laugh, because Baz is so… Baz. Only he would come up with some sort of verbal contract as a way of saying he forgives me. I guess if it’s a contract, it’s meant to be both. Forgiveness and apology. Unfortunately, I still have no idea whether or not I can ask him what happened at the bank. So we’re not really any farther along than when we started, except I guess he’s more relaxed. And that’s something.

Before I can figure out what to do, I hear Penny’s voice from the hallway. “Food’s here,” she calls. “Do you want me to leave it by the door?” I stop myself from jumping up at the sound of her voice, wanting to drag her in here and hug her until she can’t breathe and show her this whole crazy room. But I don’t know if Baz and I are in the middle of a private conversation or not. You’d think that would be the kind of thing you would know, but then you’d remember that you’re me. Nothing is too stupid for me.

I look uncertainly over at Baz, but he’s already opening the door.

“Come on, Bunce, surely my table manners aren’t that terrible. And you’re used to Snow’s. Aren’t we eating together?”

Penny looks confused for a second, frozen in the doorway. Then she shrugs, and says, carefully “I didn’t want to interrupt you guys.” I watch, transfixed, as Baz rolls his eyes at her and then pulls her into the room with a hug.

“We were just going to fetch you anyway. Snow’s ready for the tale of the bank, and I don’t want to tell it twice.”

I stand up awkwardly, acutely aware that we are Ebb’s guests. We can’t just hide in here and eat. “Um, after dinner, then, I guess? Unless you want to tell Ebb and Nicky as well?”

“Ebb’s gone to sleep,” Penny explains. “Nicky’s with her. It’s just the three of us. But yeah, let’s eat first. I’m starving.”

I love how that sounds. The three of us. I love that she looks at Baz as she says it, making it a question. I love the smile on his face as he helps her unpack the bag of takeout and responds, “three is an auspicious number.” And I love the steaming plates of sticky buns and fragrant noodles and scallion pancakes. And I love the little table we sit around to eat. I love Penny’s eyes as they take in the room, and her laugh when she notices the ravaged jars of marmite and peanut butter. I love Baz’s easy grace as he sits at the table, as he tucks his hair behind his ear and spoons sesame chicken onto his plate and turns to smile at me.

 Baz and Penny love puzzles too much to wait until after dinner. As we eat, Baz tells us about the bank and the box and the plan that killed his mother. He lets me hold his hand as he talks, but his voice stays fairly toneless. I can't blame him. Sometimes feeling things is more trouble than it's worth. I watch as he and Penny fit pieces of the story together. I don't really try to follow along. I just let myself get lost in the comfort of being together.

 

**Baz**

As we eat, I finally tell them about the bank. About the locked box of papers. About the unintentional record of my mother's love for me. And about Nicky’s story. Being hired to kill her. Being contacted by her dead spirit. It no longer seems as insane as it has just this morning. The lines between natural and supernatural are more flimsy than I care to know. More things in heaven and earth and all that. I don’t think I’m being remotely coherent.  

 It should be awful. Knowing that Davy is the one who killed my mother. Knowing what he was using Simon for, all that time. But it's not. It's comforting to finally know that it didn't matter that I screamed for her. It's comforting to finally know that Simon’s mother didn't die giving birth to him. It's comforting to finally know that Penny didn't just forget about Simon.

When we finish eating and talking, the three of us pull all the covers off the beds and cushions off the couches. We build a giant nest on the floor of the sitting room and watch stupid movies on Netflix. We fall asleep like that, wrapped around one another. Tomorrow will bring police and questions and decisions to be made. But tonight, there's just the three of us, watching out for each other. I imagine Lucy and my mum watching us from wherever they are, and I whisper to them that it's ok now. The dead and the living can let go of each other. We can all rest in our own kind of peace, on our own sides of the veil, and no one will be lost.

And it's comforting to think that the two of them are out there, somewhere, watching us. Sending Nicky to save us. That they love us. That they don't blame us. That we can let go of them, finally. They're not ours to carry. We are theirs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Oh, except for the next 5 eloligues. And the additional fics in the series. 
> 
> But it doesn't work quite as well to write:
> 
> The middle!


	41. Epilogue with Baz.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summer passes. The fall begins. I have so many allusions I want to make to the nature of time, the nature of circles, the determination of the human psyche to move linearly forward as though the earth is flat. I guess the title will have to suffice. Though maybe I should have named it We Start in the Middle instead? But it has become ISITM in my heart, so that will not do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was the end of the story. But there are five epilogues. The math is left as an exercise to the reader.

_September 12, the following fall_

**Baz**

I'm getting back from class a little early, and I'm excited to see Simon. In our last seminar today, we went through the cliched icebreaker of going around the room and explaining why we chose to become teachers.

I'm working on giving banality the benefit of the doubt. So I tried to be earnest. It was a struggle, surrounded by so much earnestness, to abandon irony and go with honesty. But I persevered. Obviously. I refuse to fail, even when striving for a goal I disdain. And to my eternal annoyance, it was powerful. Opening myself to a room of strangers and telling them a truth about myself, regardless of how small that truth was. I had one of those weird meta-moments, where I can imagine my future self thinking back to this moment and recognizing it as a Moment.

Fuck. I shouldn't have to be this sincere in the privacy of my own bitter thoughts. The earnestness is getting out of hand. Whatever. The point is, I'm excited to tell Simon about it. And to tell him what I told my classmates. About the day I followed him down a cliff and listened to all those kids play violin.

I assume Simon already knows that's why I'm in grad school to be a music teacher. I mean, it's not subtle. But. I don't think I've ever said it out loud to him. And I'm reasonably sure I've never thanked him. Because I'm an asshole. He probably still thinks it was me doing him a favor, and not the other way around.

He probably still doesn't know that it's always been the other way around.

While we're being meta, I may as well add that I'm excited to be excited to talk to him. It feels good to look forward to talking. He's been doing so much better. Especially after he finally agreed to take over the bakery from Ebb, when she moved to Vermont with Nicky. To no one’s surprise (except his, of course) he's brilliant at it. And over the past few weeks, between the trial ending and the bakery going so well, he's started to be himself again.

That's an idiotic thing to say. He's always himself. I guess I mean he's started to sometimes be the version of himself that he deserves to be. Smiling like a small sun, glowing like a star, making everything beside him pale and shine simultaneously. Warming the world around him just by existing.

After the arrest, Simon changed. He became quiet. It was like everything that used to animate him, had just drained away. Like he'd been emptied of all the light that used to fill him, that used to make him exist more brightly than other people.

It started at the diner. It probably started before the diner, when Simon first saw Davy in the dorm. He hasn't been able to tell me about that part yet. But it got worse after the arrest. When it was clear that he, Simon, was going to have to be part of the case against Davy. When he had to testify. When he saw Penny's picture of him on that little board in the courtroom.

We tried to protect him from it as much as we could. I was grateful, once again, to have access to my father's creepy world of power. We made sure that bail was denied, that Davy stayed in police custody for the duration of the trial. That Simon didn't have to be scared of Davy finding his way into our space again.

The police had found a set of disturbingly detailed lab notes in a locked safe in Davy’s office. We convinced the prosecutor to rely on those for corroborating most of Simon's story. But she thought it was critical for Simon to be in the courtroom. For the jury to see him, and hear him explicitly confirm that these weren't just the fantasies of a sick man. That Davy had actually done them. All of them, to him.

The notebooks should have been enough. I should have been more insistent about it. But the prosecutor argued that Davy was so good at manipulating his image, at getting away with things. That without Simon to counterbalance Davy’s charisma, Davy would get away with all of it. Again.

I tried to read them. The notebooks, I mean. I couldn't get more than a few pages in. The words on the page made me sick. Literally sick; my stomach lurching, my head pulsing painfully. I was too overwhelmed to even read. And it felt wrong. To read about it. To know these things about Simon, without him being the one to tell me.

Simon tried to read them too. I sat beside him on the couch when he tried to get through the first one. I held his left hand in mine as his right turned the pages. The words swam on the page for me. After a while, I gave up on trying to read. I kept my eyes on his face. His face was completely blank, for about twenty minutes. Twenty silent, awful, endless minutes. Then he pulled his hand out of mine and stood, letting the book fall from his lap to the floor.

His face wasn't blank in that moment just before he stood. It was the opposite of blank. It was indescribable. Unspeakable. Seeing his face, like that. I felt like I was witnessing something. It scared me. It changed me. Simon and I stayed frozen in that tableau. Victim and witness. For maybe a minute. Two. Then he turned, and walked into our room, and then into the bathroom, and locked the door.

I sat on the other side of the door, leaning the back of my head against it and twisting my fingers to produce some small pain to alleviate the awful horror of hearing him cry. Cry, and vomit, and sob, and retch. I talked to him the whole time, some mindless flow of words I can't remember. Finally he opened the door and let me fall back into him, let me get up and hold him. Let me sit down with him on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and hold him, murmuring and stroking and smoothing him as he made the ragged journey back to the present.

After that, neither of us tried reading the journals again.

But he stayed so quiet for so long, after. After the testimony, after the hours waiting and the ugliness of the courtroom. After the reporters and phone calls and sleepless nights. After Davy’s lawyers got the case transferred to another jurisdiction. After Davy's successful plea negotiation. After Davy disappeared en route to the new prison. After the rumors and whispers of secret negotiations and unregistered flights to Belize or Argentina. By the end, we were so relieved to have the whole nightmare of the trial end, it hardly mattered that Davy would never be brought to justice. At least Simon was free of him. Finally. Forever.

It got better after that. But. Simon is still quiet, most of the time. Too quiet. It's not that he doesn't talk, or doesn't smile. It's not that he doesn't make plans or do his work.

It's not that he doesn't kiss me.

It's that he doesn't bounce when he walks. His smile is still beautiful, but devoid of the sizzling glee that I’d grown to love. He got through finals and stood through graduation and went to parties and hung out with friends, but he didn't glow and shine and sparkle like he used to.

He still kisses me. But it's no longer ravenous.

It's like, if he feels anything beyond the most mild version of an emotion, he backs off. Like he'd just stepped from shadow onto burning sand. Like the feelings would incinerate him.

The irony is not lost on me. I have the Simon I once tried to curse myself with. A Simon who's less. A Simon who's quiet. A Simon without his magic, without the fire that used to shine through everything he did and said.

But for the past couple of weeks, as the summer ended and the fall began, Simon’s been getting steadily better. And now the summer is over. It's a perfect autumn day, bright and crisp. I feel light as I head to the bakery.

My heart falls a little when I see that Simon’s not there. But I shake myself as the kid working at the register explains that Simon just went to play soccer with a bunch of kids from the neighborhood when school got out. I try to remind myself that there's no need to panic every time Simon isn't here. Davy's gone. Simon's fine. Everything's fine.

I head to the park. Teachers’ College is just far enough north of campus that it doesn't really make sense to walk through the park to get there and back. I usually do it anyway, especially when the leaves are changing and the air is perfect. Today, though, I was too excited to tell Simon about class, so I took the faster route through the streets.

When I finally cut into the park, I see him. Sitting against a tree, looking sad, absentmindedly shredding little piles of grass. My heart twists. I try to still it.

Sad is better than blank. Pulling grass is better than pulling out his hair. But it hurts anyway. Hurts to see him like this, hurts to let go of all the excited happiness I’d been feeling just a moment ago. This isn't going to be a lovely conversation about how he changed my life. I'm not sure what it'll be, but it won't be that.

I give myself a minute to let the disappointment wash over me. Because he'll sense it on me, and he'll think it's that I'm disappointed in him. And I've learned that, when he goes to that dark place in his head, no amount of words can convince him otherwise. So I try to compose myself before I talk to him.

He always knows, anyway. No matter how good I think I am at hiding, he always sees right through it. Through me. As if my mask wasn't there at all.

He never calls me out on it. And I return the favor. Each of us knows when the other is hiding, and each of us goes along with the pretense. It works because we both know that we're giving each other space. We know that sometimes space is all we can offer each other.

“Hey,” I say, pointlessly, sitting down beside him. He looks up with an almost-smile and bumps my shoulder with his.

“Hey,” he says back.

After this brilliant exchange of our innermost feelings, we sit quietly for a while. Both of us staring, possibly at the same tree. Definitely not at each other. I don't tell him about class. He doesn't ask.

When he starts to speak, I'm glad I didn't speak first. It's rarely Simon who breaks a silence. I sit very still, afraid I'll inadvertently mess up whatever it is I (even more inadvertently) did to make this happen.

“I've been thinking?” he starts. It comes out as a question. He tries again. “I mean, I've been. Been thinking.”

I squash the automatic reaction of panic when he says _thinking_ like that. Like he's thinking about all the reasons he shouldn't be with me. It's not about me. I know it's not about me. I repeat it in my head. It's not about me. I repeat it to myself as I wait, and wait, and wait for him to say something else.

Eventually he goes on. “I'm trying to. Understand?” He breathes once. Twice. Tries again. “I mean, I don't know. I don't know why. I just. I don't understand why I'm so upset.”

Too much time has passed between sentences for me to keep the panic fully contained. I try to breathe around it. Granted, Simon’s generally oblivious. But even he has to know how legitimate “upset” is as a reaction to everything with Davy. So, he must me talking about else. Something I did. Something he doesn't understand. I start to lose the war against panic as I frantically try to think of what I might have done.

“I mean. It's not. It's not like,” and here, he blows air out his nose in frustration, as though it's the oxygen that's stopping him from being able to piece his words together. He's running his hands through his hair, unconsciously pulling at it, in the way he does when everything inside hurts so much that he needs something outside to hurt too, to balance it out. It s gesture I know too well.

Fuck. Even if this _is_ about something I did wrong, it doesn't mean he doesn't need me right now. I tentatively put my hand on his leg, and squeeze it softly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then another. He takes one hand out of his hair and rests it on mine. The other keeps twisting nervously at his curls. I resist the urge to pull it away. He starts talking again, in a rush.

“I'm glad he's gone. I hate him. So. Why. Why do I feel worse instead of better? Why is everything so much worse now than before, when I've fantasized about killing him a dozen ways?”

Simon's never admitted this to me before. I turn my hand so my fingers lace through his and wait. I think about my own desire to kill that man. I can't imagine what it's like to be Simon in this moment. I mean, ever. But especially about this. I still have no clue what he's getting at, though. I mean, what's not to understand? He survived for twenty years by hiding in an alternate reality. Which only works when the other reality is a seamlessly wrapped secret. Of course he’ll feel worse when that hellish package is slashed open, when the secrets are lying naked on the ground for anyone to see.

“I hate him. I really do. I. But still. It feels. I mean, it feels. Like. Like, now that he's missing or dead or hiding or wherever he is, it's like it really all happened and won't ever unhappen.”

I feel sick. His voice grows more broken, more breathless, as he talks. Riding the razor’s edge of self revelation and self destruction.

“Like now. He'll never come to me and say. Say. Say, _I'm sorry Simon, I don’t know what I was thinking, I love you and want to be your father_.”

I freeze. He feels it. He pulls away, guarded. His face is heating up. I don't think I'll ever figure out what I'm supposed to do when he feels like this. When he thinks the thing I'm reacting to is him, not his pain.

And it hurts. To know that despite everything, he still doesn't really know I love him. I try to remember that this formulation isn't quite right. He knows I love him; he doesn't know that love doesn't have to be painful. That there's kinds of love you can trust.

That's what hurts, I guess. The feeling that he doesn't trust me not to hurt him. And I never know what to do. Move closer or give him space?

I move closer to him, leaning against him slightly. Waiting quietly.

He's still talking, defensively now. Voice harsh, angry, rough. As if talking to someone mocking and cruel. I feel hopeless, helpless. I can never escape my past self. In the end, he'll always see me as the worst version of me. And it hurts.

“I _know_ he was never doing to do that, but I guess I also didn't know. I didn't even know I was hoping for that. That I want that. And it's not like that would change anything anyway. But now it's like, it all really happened and it's never going to change.” Simon lets himself lean on me now, lets his voice lose its edge. Whispers through silent tears. “It's never going to change. It's never going to get fixed. It's never really over, if it's never fixed.”

And I hold him, and I let him cry. And I try not to feel useless. I try not to wish that it was about me. That I was enough. That I mattered, more.

**Simon**

How is he so good at this? How is he able to be so patient through all my barbed bullshit? How does he make me feel so much better just by sitting next to me?

Why is another question. But. I know the answer to why, and it brings a smile to my face, despite everything. He loves me. That's why. I hold him a little tighter, not quite a hug. A hug’s cousin. I smile again.

But seriously, how does he do that? Make me fucking smile when I'm. I’m. Whatever. Like _this_. Suddenly, I’m really curious. I mean, it's a reasonable question. It's not fucking normal. So it seems ok to ask.

“Baz. How do you always? I mean. I get so. And it's so bad, for. For everyone. I mean, when they're. When I’m. When I get like. You know. You actually do know,” I kind of snort with the absurdity of it.

He knows. He's been at the receiving end of my silences and my anger and my withdrawing and my lashing out. He knows and he's still here and it makes everything ok even when nothing's ok. It would be nice if I could fucking tell him. It would be nice if these words could make it past my lips with the same coherence that they appear to have before I try talking. Instead of all the _I’s_ and _you’s_ and “ _you know_ ”’s. But it doesn't really matter. Not with him. He knows. Whatever I'm stumbling around, whatever I'm trying to say. He knows.

Well, sometimes he doesn't, and he's a real asshole about it. ‘ _Use your words, Snow._ ” It makes me smile. It used to make me want to throw him down a staircase, and now it makes me smile. This seems relevant somehow, to what I'm trying to ask him, but it flies through my mind so quickly I can't even remember what it was anymore. All that's left is a lingering sense of being connected.

I'm still talking. It's like when Peter and Susan and Edmund and Lucy ruled Narnia for years and decades and then got back, and no time at all had passed. An eternity passes between every word for me. But outside of me, it's never more than a heartbeat.

“But you always just,” I try. I keep trying. “I mean, I know you get mad,” I feel him tense slightly at the word, so I quickly amend, “ok, not _mad_ , you get hurt or whatever. But that's why I don't get it. How you know how to pull back from it? That shit always drags me over the fucking edge. So. How?”

He's quiet for a minute. Then another. He stays quiet for so long that I don't think he's going to answer. Actually I think maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he never even heard my question, which is probably a good thing because-

“I don't know,” he says slowly, and I almost jump. I can feel the warm rumble of his not-quite-a-laugh, though I can't hear it. It heats me through, loosens the wires that cross and pull and press on my heart. “I hate to attribute anything good to therapy,” he continues, “but I suppose it could be that?”

I'm surprised. First, that he's mentioning therapy at all. And even more, that he's admitting that it might be even remotely useful. He never used to talk about it. I was shocked in March when I discovered he went every week. It only came up after I started going, too.

He said he never told me because I never asked. I couldn't believe he was pulling out the world's least convincing attempt to avoid a question. I let it slide, of course.

But even though I know, now, he still doesn’t talk about it much. And when he does, it's usually scathing or dismissive. I've always assumed he only goes because he's required to by some post-apocalypse deal. Where they let you go home, but you have to keep going to therapy.

We’re sitting so that my arms are around him, and his head is resting on my chest. We can feel each other and hear each other but not really see each other. It makes it easier to keep talking. At least one word at a time.

“Really?” I manage that one word without too much trouble.

“Yeah,” he answers easily. “I suppose that despite all appearances to the contrary, there's some value in it after all.”

Baz pauses, then lets the veneer of ironic formality drop as he says more seriously, “when I'm there, it never seems to do anything. But. I'm definitely different. And I don't know, maybe it's part of it? I mean, I can't point to anything specific. It never feels like anything is happening. But it must change something, anyway. I guess that's why I keep going.”

I don’t know why I hadn't known. He must be going voluntarily at this point. It's more than a year since he left rehab. The statute of limitations on his therapy-as-bail situation must have run out by now. It's weirdly comforting. I renew my vow to at least try to take therapy seriously, since I have to go anyway. It's hard, though. It feels like trying to kill a lion with a fly swatter.

Baz keeps talking. “When I was in rehab, I ate every meal and showed up at every activity and went through the whole fucking charade. I resented the hell out of it, but I did it.” Baz is quiet again, but then keeps talking. “And then I guess it was kind of ok after a while. Some parts of it were good. Which is easier to say now, when I don't have to be there, where everyone could see me. It was like being naked, everyone seeing all the ugliness.”

I know he's speaking metaphorically, but I can't resist the opening he's given me. And I'm exhausted. I'm ready for this conversation to be over. I want to talk about it, but not now, when I'm so drained. I marvel again at the freedom of waiting for later. Being able to stop talking now, not have to hold on to every second of openness. Because I know it'll happen again. That I get to see him again and talk to him again and hug him again and tease him again and hold him again. That he’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.

So I hold him, and kiss his hair, and hug him. It's unreasonable to think that this sufficiently expresses the words that feel too complicated to say. I want to thank him for letting me see him. I want to thank him for wanting to see me. See me and not run away. And I want to tell him how much I love him. How much I love seeing him, every part of him. But those words are all too much to say. Right now, they are. Right now, I want to remind him of other parts of himself. The cocky, insufferable parts of him.

And I know he'll understand that I need to stop talking, for now. He always understands this shit. Me. He understands me.

So I say lightly, suggestively, “well, in your case, the analogy fails. Because you're even better looking naked.”

He laughs, as I knew he would. But then he says,“Yeah. If only.” And that's a little weird. Baz doesn't generally do coy. And I know he knows how attractive he is.

I press a little. “Come on, Baz. You are perfectly aware that people swoon in your wake when you walk through a room.”

“Exactly,” he says, more seriously than I expected. “Give me a suit and I can fake it. Suit, sunglasses, hair. Cover me up, and I'm beautiful.”

I don't want to be weird about this, but I can't believe this is really what he thinks. I let my hands move across him and whisper “Baz, you are the most beautiful person I've ever seen.”

He laughs again. I'm a little unsure what to do. Ok, more than a little. I thought he was kidding, but now I don’t anymore. The thought that he doesn’t actually know how beautiful he is never occurred to me. What with all the preening and bragging and stuff. So I just say what I'm thinking. Which is,

“God, if you don't know how sexy you are, there's no hope for the rest of us.”

**Baz**

How did this become a conversation about what I look like naked? Karmic recompense for wishing the conversation was about me, I suppose.

I'm pretty sure Simon’s just trying to move past the intensity so we can stand up and walk back home and act like normal people. And sex is a perfectly valid distraction technique. But I feel like I can't let this go.

“Come off it, Simon. ‘ _The rest of us_ ’?Like there's an army of bronzed heroes wandering around, all of you unaware of how unreasonably attractive you are?”

He laughs, and I let the sound of it wash everything else away. He's going to be ok. We're going to be ok.

“An army of skinny, pale, mole-covered heroes!” He's laughing, but he's not kidding. Seriously? Does he not know how gorgeous he is? He’s such an idiot. Such a cute, sexy, heroic idiot.

“I'd never survive an army of golden mole-sprinkled gods,” I murmur, turning a little so I can kiss my favorite one. Under his ear, on the softest part of his neck. He hums, and I turn a little more. He wraps his arms back around me and I breathe him in. I love him. He loves me. Everything else is details.

**Simon**

We sit and touch and breathe and kiss. We get to do this, he lets me do this. I feel the sun on my hair and the heat of his skin under my fingers. I let myself melt slowly. I let everything shift and fade until the only part of me that's left is the part that's connected to him. He connects me to myself. He grounds me in everything that's good.

I finally pull back, and he lets me do that too. We're both smiling and breathing quickly. We stay close, fingers entwined. I ask him about school, and he relaxes against me. He tells me. He tells me about violins and students. He tells me about himself, about me, about our past and our future and all the lines that connect us. He speaks in words and gestures that all say the same things. Different things. Hope and trust. Kindness and peace and warmth. Joy and safety. Freedom. Faith. Gratitude, truth. Patience.

And. Love. And love, and love, and love.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lazy narrative short cut for those (like me) who are concerned that this chapter does not sufficiently resolve the open threads left at the end of the story, in particular, that whole thing where Davy had Natasha murdered, because surely that would have been covered in the trial and this is Baz's chapter: Basically, Baz doesn't mention anything about the part of the trial that was about Davy arranging to have his mother murdered. He just can't deal with it. He's not that different from Simon, except he doesn't even realize he's not thinking about it. He's really good at understanding Simon but not that good at understanding himself, or being kind to himself, yet. Simon's helping with that, but it's a process. 
> 
> And Simon doesn't talk about it this chapter because he's not thinking about the trial. 
> 
> What happened with the Natasha part was that the only evidence was Nicky, and Nicky wasn't a reliable witness, so Davy was able to get that set of charges dropped. He was never indicted for murder, just for the stuff in the bakery. Then they were able to add the charges based on the lab notebooks after those were found. So that's what the trial was about. He was never on trial for murder.


	42. Epilogue with Ebb

**Ebb, in November**

This isn’t quite how I'd imagined it happening. (Now there's a thing that ought never need saying.) When first setting up the paperwork for Simon's wages, I'd not known that his name wasn't always Snow.

When searching for how to un-set it all up, I'd not realized he'd seen to it that his name was Snow from here on.

When I discovered that the boy had thought longer and harder than most about the how's and not just the why's of things, I'd decided not to do so much thinking of my own. Do things as they need doing, and wait on the rest.

Forgot, didn't I, that not-doing is as much a doing as doing. Little matter, except that this isn't how I'd imagined things. And it might've gone easier if I'd been able to see how it would happen.

I thought we’d have the conversation over tea, after he'd done with schooling. After he'd let go of some of the fear that stood out clear as the freckles on his nose. When he'd be more ready to see himself as I saw him, not as Davy did. 

When taking what's due him wouldn't cost him so dear.

Wasn’t even me in the end, was it, who showed Simon the spaces I'd carved and had built for him. When Nicky took the boys back there, I was still half lost in the shock of it all.

Seeing Simon safe and whole when he got back that terrible day, it made shadows of all my careful planning and hoping. You forget how everything else recedes, next to the fear that the blood has stopped flowing through the veins.

Planning’s the jurisdiction of the lucky. Never stopped a soul from trying, though.

As it transpired, I wasn't there when Simon had to confront the evidence of how much I loved him, how much I'd been planning on his behalf, all these long months. Basilton was.

That night, of course, none of them really understood what any of it meant. I doubt Simon even registered the files hanging neatly on the desk. That night there was room for nothing but breathing and holding on. Leaves and sheets and ink and metal made no imprint on the world that night.

But there were four of them. Four files.  

The first file was filled with all the necessaries for Simon to take over the account that held all the money he'd earned and not been willing to accept.

The second one I hung there was for the title and deed and keys and alarm codes for the bakery and the flat. Soon followed by a third, holding the papers for the building I'd written over to him.

That was it, for a while.

A few months later, I added a fourth. That fourth one started life as an argument in my head. It ended as a wish so strong I'd sometimes just stand in the empty room, holding the folder of printed pages and letting the hope fill me and soothe me.

It started when I tried to imagine how Simon would react to the rest of it. How could I shape the telling, so he would accept the giving?

How could I convince him that he wouldn't even question it, if he'd been raised right? If he had had parents, the way parents are supposed to be; he wouldn’t question his right to comfort and love and happiness.

The right of his heart to beat, the right of his eyes to sparkle. The right to take up the space he occupies. The right to make his noise, to shake the heavens and move the earth. To be thunder and lightening. To be fire and light. To be flesh and bone. To be whole and happy and at ease.

At first, all I could think to give him were things. Money and keys and titles and deeds. Space, safety. 

Things were a pale shadow of what I want to give him. I want to give him not just gifts, but the belief that he is entitled to be given. The conviction that he has every right to take.

I tried to reckon a path to give him all of it. I imagined myself speaking.

I imagined telling him, _if I were your mother, you would take it without hesitation._

I imagined explaining to him,  _if your mother were here, she would give you this, and more._

The words gained power as they swirled through the pathways of my mind. Other words flew into orbit around them.

_If I were your mother, I could give and give. If you were my son, you would take without fear._

I quieted myself, trying to hear the endlessly practical voice inside me. The voice that has pushed and pulled me across oceans and continents. The voice that made me stop Simon from walking away that day, when he rose on shaking legs from the pavement in front of my door.

Until I could hear that voice, as it pushed me to know that I could be his mother. Paper can change what you are, what you're called, what you mean. Paper could give us to each other.

I could adopt him.

For the first time in my withered life, I dismissed the voice.

The voice was a foolish thing, counseling me to do with paper what is already done or not done with the heart. We are whatever we are to each other. We will become whatever we wish. Paper has no role in this. The state has no place in it, the courts have no role.

Those words: mother, son; they are arbitrary conventions, meaningless. Or less meaningful, anyway, then the truth they are trying either to capture or to create. 

I gathered the paperwork anyway.

I started with telling myself it was to make a point. He couldn't reject my help as easily, if I could demonstrate that his objection was as flimsy as paper itself.

It wasn't long before I would find myself standing in his empty room, my fingers resting gently on the file folder, my eyes closed, letting myself wish and dream.

It was disconcerting, to find myself so full of wishes and dreams. I'd long ago replaced the dreams with survival; wishes with tears. But Simon made me dream again. He made wishes worth the risk.

Soon I had to admit to the voice that it was right. Paper matters. Words have power. It's never been a thing I shied away from, before. Experience is framed in language. The choices we make with language transform reality as we experience it.

Words like mother; words like child.

Formality changes things. Setting the words on paper, swearing on it to the state. It matters.

It mattered to me. It would matter to him. But that was the heart of the matter, knowing how it would matter. 

Does the boy want a mother?

Does he want me?

I know full well how I feel about him. He is everything. He is all that is good about the world. He is light, and color, and passion. He is life. He is the heart of my life now.

In my mind, he already is my child. So there's nothing left for it but to ask.

There's precious little I fear. But I am scared of this. Of wanting, of taking.

Of losing.

I lost Nicky. I lost Tasha. If I love Simon, if I make him my family. Will I lose him, too? Just under the surface of my heart, I am scared that it was truly me who lost them. That they were lost because of the fact that they were mine. It's not rational, but there it is.

So, I've waited. I asked nothing; I said nothing. I told myself it was best to wait for graduation anyway. I told myself that Simon needed time to settle into his life with Baz. He needed space choose for himself what should come next. It felt like good sense to me at the time, the waiting did. 

No use wondering now what might have been. What was sense and what was cowardice.

But sure as sure, I didn't intend for him to just happen upon the papers without warning. Which is what nearly happened.

Sheer luck it was that the children chose to sleep all piled on one another in the sitting room. That no one gave much of a look around the bedroom. That none of those sharp eyes noted the files on the desk, none of those sharp minds read through them.

I had the chance the next day to retrieve the file where I ask him to be my child. I left the others untouched on his desk. I left it to Baz and Penny to recognize what they meant, and for the three of them to come talk to me about it when they were ready. And so time kept passing.

The children kept themselves and one another going. They went to classes, wrote exams, got measured for robes. Graduated. Rested. Waited. And finally, they came to me. Files in hand. Not surprisingly, Simon fought me on them. I was having none of it. The money was already legally his, I explained, so there was naught to fight over. He already lived with me, so he could ignore the property I'd signed over to him for long as he felt like being stubborn.

The bakery, though. That was a sticking point. That one we had to work to some agreement on.

He said no to it for a set of reasons. Some were known to me; some remain hidden still. Then, he changed his answer. He said yes. For another set of reasons, reasons swimming closer to his surface.

He knew how I miss the green. He could see how I wanted to spend the warm months somewhere with hills and grass and quiet. And. He knew how I wanted to be with Nicky. He knew that Nicky couldn't live trapped in a city. Simon accepted the gift so as to give me my freedom.

He became owner of my bakery, and my heart could rest a bit easier. It worked, too, as I hoped it would. It kept him anchored in the Simon he'd built in New York.

I knew that after graduation, Columbia and classes and routine would no longer tie him to himself. But between Basilton and Penny and the bakery, he didn't spin adrift past the point where we could reach him.

As it happened, Simon taking the bakery bought Basilton his freedom as well. It's crossed my mind that he saw it could happen, that it was also why he said yes. 

With a place to live, Simon working, and enough money to buffer against whatever may pass, Basilton could let go of being Malcolm’s son.

Which is what he did. He walked away from his wealth, from everything he ever took for granted. Free of fear for Simon, he could take this risk. It was good for the both of them. Good for Simon to be relied on, to be the one who gave. Giving allowed him to take, too.

So Simon took the bakery, and I bought a farm in Vermont. It tore at me to leave. But I managed it, because I knew there was no real leaving being done.

After a few months, though, the papers I've carried with me every day started to burn a hole in my heart. It was time to ask.

So here I am, driving back from the farm to the flat. I smile, imagining Simon’s reaction to the car I've acquired while in Vermont. It'll be fun to give him the keys.

In my imagination, he doesn’t hesitate to take them. In my imagination, he'll already have agreed, already signed the adoption papers that are currently riding shotgun in the Alfa Romeo.

I drive as fast as I dare on the deserted night highway, towards love and family.

For the first time since arriving on these shores, I am ready to take part in the national Thanksgiving.

For the first time in forever, hope floods me even as this strip of earth turns her face from the sun. Simon is the sun. And no matter what may be yet to come, I know our faces will forever remain turned to each other.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	43. Epilogue with ghosts and tofurkey

[ _Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth. The minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing: Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q&sns=em)

**Tasha**  

It is done.

I am free.

 

**Lucy**

I am alone.

Tasha has dissipated and I am alone.

I watch, alone, as Simon grieves. I watch, but I don't hear him. I can no longer hear the living. I watch, but I don't go to him. I can no longer visit or touch the living. I can only watch from behind a thick glass. Through the speculum, as it were. Darkly.

The glass that surrounds me blocks sound and movement. It locks me in their present, freezes time so my tattered spirit is trapped. Trapped, with Simon, in his present.

It is a curse and it is a gift. The corners of myself are pulled and shifted until we no longer know ourselves. We are here and we know something but it is not ourselves we know.

The glass stands fast; it blocks and holds. But it is, after all, permeable. It allows something through, from the living to the dead. The wash of their feelings seeps through it; they sweep over us in waves. We are left drenched.

We curdle in the tide of Simon’s pain.

We stand fast. We feel the current as it starts to temper, change. The waves move, as waves will. They ebb and flow and move and change and shift.

They are towering, crashing monsters. They are an army of toddlers smashing everything in their passionate wrath. They grasp and pull. They give and lift. They move, and move, and move constantly, but remain always one substance.

Always changing, never changing. Motion without movement. The vast depths of pain never leave, but they change. They calm, they shift, they are joined by new currents.

No, not new. The currents were always there. But now they are floods. Tides of bright curiosity and swirling happiness and a center of calm. We let them wash over us. We are bathed in their waters.

 

 **Simon** _The third Tuesday in November, in the story's present_

I’m not all that surprised to realize that I'm dreading Thanksgiving. I’ve always hated Thanksgiving.

The last four weren't much better than the first seventeen. Everyone at school celebrated Thanksgiving, so it's always felt awful to be the one person who has no home to go back to.

Aimee and Jonah and Annika and Sarayah all went home, every year. They invited me, too. Every year. But I knew better than to go to other families’ celebrations.

But this year is different. I won’t be by myself for a change. I’ll be with Baz. I’ll be with Penny. I’ll be with Ebb, who’s driving back from Vermont tomorrow.

On Thursday we’re going to bake and cook together all day, and then we’re going to have like a million people over for dinner. Friends of Baz’s from school. Friends of Ebb’s from who the fuck knows where. Friends of mine from the neighborhood.

This year will be better. This year is better. Now I get to watch Baz out of the corner of my eyes without the pretense of needing to see if he's plotting something. Now I get to listen without hiding as he sighs and stretches when he wakes up. I get to tease him when he sneaks snickers bars when he thinks no one’s watching.

I get to kiss his bottom lip when he chews on it while he's studying. I get to admire how his jeans hug his legs. I get to touch the sliver of his back I can sometimes see when he reaches up to grab something off the top shelf of the wardrobe.

I still can't stand the idea of being forced to be thankful, though. So I try to put the holiday out of my mind and just pretend we're having a big dinner party. Penny's vegetarian anyway, so there will be absolutely no turkey. I've also banned stuffing and pumpkin pie.

I make an exception for cranberries, though. Obviously. 

 

 **Simon** _The third Wednesday in November, in the story's present_

I half expect Ebb to hike home with a giant staff and a long cloak. I certainly do not expect her to pull up in a sleek red Italian sports car wearing old jeans and a hoodie. There's a goat figurine hanging from the rear view mirror, though, so I guess not everything has changed. Ebb herself remains Ebb, through and through. She seems younger, though. Lighter.

It's so good to see her that I instinctively step forward to hug her as soon as she gets out of the car. She makes a small noise of surprise and hugs me back. I feel a little weird. Dazed. The things I'm feeling are so unfamiliar that I have to put them away for later. I feel a little embarrassed, but it's hard to stay embarrassed around Ebb, so it quickly fades.

We weren't supposed to start baking until tomorrow. But Ebb is super excited because she says she's worked out how we can do a violin cake and now she wants to try out her ideas immediately.

I've already made and delivered all the Thanksgiving orders, so we have the bakery to ourselves and no schedule to keep to.

We fall easily back into our routines. She mixes the batters, I set the molds and slip them into the ovens to bake. Then I start the fondant and set up the station where we design and build new pieces for custom cakes.

Ebb has a brilliant plan, not surprisingly. It involves a lot of delicate meringues and strands of spun sugar, and soon she and I are completely absorbed in testing out different textures and glazes. We finally get a few prototypes that seem promising. Now there's nothing left to do but wait for the cakes to cool and start building.

Ebb starts to make tea, like she's always done at this juncture in our cake collaborations. The feeling from earlier overwhelms me again. This time, I have the space to look at it, while she's busy fussing around choosing mugs to fit the moment and deciding what kind of tea she wants to make.

I feel kind of sad, and happy. I'm happy but my heart hurts a little. That part isn't unusual. I always feel sad when I'm happy.

I keep trying to see my feelings. I feel hungry; hungry and very thirsty. I know by now that it's a craving for something that doesn't exist. But that doesn't help me understand why I feel so strange.

These are all feelings I'm used to. I always have this feeling of _wish wish wish_ , that burns benignly behinds my ribs. The difference isn't there. Ah. The difference is something that's not there.

As soon as I notice what's different, everything shifts back. So I never have a moment of understanding it and feeling it at the same time. But this is what was different, a moment ago: I wasn't afraid.

I was happy and sad and longing and resigned. But I wasn't scared. The fear snaps back into place with the observation of its absence. Now I feel kind of normal. I feel like me, like Simon. I feel ok, familiar. This is what being me feels like.

Ebb turns around, balancing the mugs, and hands one to me. She sits down next to me. We sit and drink our tea and it's nice. Familiar. Then she says my name, and it comes out uncertain.

"Simon?" Almost a question. I turn to her.

"Sure enough," I reply, an echo of her. That works, and she laughs, and the fear that had started wrapping itself more tightly around my lungs loosens just a bit.

Ebb is many things: kind, perceptive, bullheaded, decisive. Never uncertain. The tea sits uncomfortably in my stomach as I wait for what comes next.

Dozens of things flit across the surface of my consciousness. She's going to tell me she's moving to Vermont permanently. She's going to tell me I didn't run the bakery as she'd hoped. She's going to tell me that it's time for me to move on. She's going to tell me that she's closing the bakery. She's going to tell me I don't need her anymore. 

Layered over these thoughts are the others. The uglier, older, messier ones. I did something wrong. I made a mistake. I got something wrong, and now I am no good to her. I'm not what she needs. I disappointed her. I did it all wrong, and she's through with me. I'm a disappointment. I'm a failure. I'm wrong.

And ghosting over those feelings are the thoughts that stomp and stamp with the power of their certainty. This is all in my head. There's nothing to lose, because I never had anything. I work for her, I run her bakery. She has a fucking question. This is not life or death. Not everything is life or death. Not everyone makes everything into everything. She wants to work out a schedule or change the lease or something mundane. She's a normal person having a normal relationship with the person she hired to run her bakery. I am reading something into nothing. It's nothing. It's all nothing, there is nothing, it means nothing.

"Simon," she says again, declarative this time. "I have a thing I want to ask you. I'm not in the habit of asking questions when I don't already have a fair idea of the answer. But I don't want to hesitate on it any longer."

I kind of nod. I really can't do anything else right now. She looks at me, and her face changes. She reaches out her hand, cups my cheek, smiles a small, sad smile. Shakes her head, looks away.

"Ah," she says. "When will I learn what it is to be outside the thing? I forget what it's like to be someone who isn't me." She shakes her head slightly, a reprimand. I'm still not sure if she's reprimanding me or herself.

Then her eyes turn back to mine and she says, "Simon, it's a scary thing, to wish. But, I wish you were mine. I love you in a way that's confounding. I want to know that I have claim to see you as much as I want. I want to know that you'll come to me when you're in need or when you're happy or when there's nothing at all."

my heartbeat starts to slow. Then it starts to speed up again at her next words.

"I want you to be my child," she's saying now. "My son. And I know it's a strange thing, to bring paper into the space between people and try to glue them together with it. But I want to know, clear as clear, that you're my family. I'm scared to ask the thing, because I fear you'll not feel free to answer as you want. That you'll feel obliged or-"

I interrupt her. My mind is very, very slowly trying to pick apart her words.

I am scared of misunderstanding. I am scared of understanding. I am scared.

"Ebb. Are you? I mean, is it that? Paper? What are you?" I shake my head in frustration. Tears threaten to fall from my eyes; around anyone else, that could never happen. But Ebb doesn't make me feel like my feelings make me weak. Ebb has always seen me calmly and straight on.

So I think she might be asking what I think she's asking, but I don't know how to ask her if that's what she's asking. I don't even know how to ask it in my own head.

Wordlessly, she hands me a roll of paper towels, and I can't help smiling.

Then she says, "Let make it clearer than clear, then. I want to adopt you, Simon. I want to be your mother. I want to be able to give you things without you thinking twice about taking them. I want leave to scold you about getting enough sleep or to pester you about grandchildren. I want to be able to protect you and I want to be a part of your life, no matter where that life takes you. I want to be stubborn. I want to know that no matter how many mistakes I make or how many things I get wrong, you are always, always, always mine. But only if you want that too. Only if it feels like a thing you would want, for you, not like a thing you feel you have to do, for me."

I feel like I'm not quite processing this, but some part of me must be, because this is what happens next:

Ebb and I are hugging and crying and laughing and then just hugging. My happiness is still there, and my sadness, and the fear. But the hunger is gone, and the thirst.

For the first time in my life, I feel full. This thing that I always thought was part of me, the wishing and wishing and knowing I would wish forever. It's gone. I'm sure it'll return, as the fear does, and the pain.

But. Now, I know what it feels like not to have that wish chewing a hole through the core of my being. I feel grateful, and the gratitude doesn't make me angry. It makes me full.

It feels like being home. It feels like having a home. It feels like belonging. It feels like safety. It feels like joy. It feels like a beginning and an ending and a middle all at once. It feels like love. Like being whole and broken at the same time. 

 

 


	44. Epilogue with revenge

The car kicks up small clouds of dust as it bumps quickly along this forgotten stretch of road. It's been on the road for hours, now. Days, in fact. The roads have grown steadily more remote and less well paved, until the car is basically navigating along paths that can scarcely be distinguished from the dusty fields they cut through.

The driver doesn't seem to register the altering terrain. Nor the relentless passing of time. One could be forgiven for wondering if the man is even awake, if not for the fact that the car safely traces the curves and twists in the road as it travels.

Maybe it's the way that the heat makes the air above the road hazy, giving the surreal impression that the car is floating on clouds of choking, black smoke. Or maybe it's the dark emptiness in the driver’s eyes. Or maybe it’s the stench of violence that trails behind them like a poison tail. Regardless, the scene has an element of hellishness to it that silences every living thing for miles around as they pass.

Eventually, the flat waste of land before them is interrupted by a tiny irregularity which grows steadily until it resolves itself into a building of some sort. The sun is setting by the time the car approaches, making it too dark to really determine what manner of structure they've been hurtling toward all day.

And all of the day before. And the one before that. It's been a long journey, punctuated by brief stops. The driver needs no sleep or food. But they all need to drink. So he stops just long enough to pour gasoline into the waiting tank, and water into the unconscious body in the trunk.

His face registers nothing when the car finally stops. No acknowledgment of having arrived. No flicker of recognition for the destination they've reached. He displays neither relief nor disappointment. No exhaustion, nor the anticipation of rest.

The driver walks around to the back of the car, and opens the trunk. He observes the way the man inside is starting to stir. Still, the driver’s face betrays nothing. Not even a glimmer of satisfaction at having timed the thing so perfectly. Though surely, even he feels the pleasure of a plan so brilliantly executed.

He bends his long frame to reach a box in the trunk. He lifts something up and out of the box, ignoring the twitching body beside it. He stands rigidly again, and regards the object in his hands idly. He holds it loosely as he waits for consciousness to fully retake the mind that flickers far below him.

The driver’s patience is often mistaken for apathy. But nothing could be farther from the truth. He has painstakingly charted the course to this moment. He has accounted for these seconds, has long known how he would spend them. Waiting. Book in hand.

Finally, the man in the trunk opens his eyes. His eyes blur and then focus on the figure looming above him. The man in the trunk pales ever so slightly, but his voice is steady as he demands, “what the fuck is going on here?”

Above him, Nicky savors the moment. Relishes the faint scent of fear. Anticipates how the fragrance will soon bloom and swirl. His voice is flat as he glances at Davy’s cracked lips, then at the canteen beside him.

“Water?” he offers, ignoring Davy's question. “You must be thirsty.” As Davy remains still, he smiles slightly. “Ah, my apologies.” He reaches down, unscrews the cap. Pours water sloppily into Davy's mouth, which is parted unwillingly by the sheer force of the thirst. “I'd forgotten I'd tied you up.” He makes no move to untie him, though, as he replaces the cap and puts down the empty bottle. “Let me know when you're ready to head inside. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

He nods at the book in his hand, and finally allows a smile to claim his face. He waits. He has learned how to be a patient man. Soon he sees Davy's eyes flick between his face and the notebook in his hand. He watches as Davy’s eyes widen and freeze in understanding when he recognizes it. Nicky nods in appreciation at the change in his mentor’s smell. He waits, giving Davy a minute to feel the terror in all its dark glory. He listens to the whine of Davy’s pulse as it ratchets up, enjoys the depth of the scent that accompanies the man’s first experience of ever being truly afraid.

“Convenient of you to leave such detailed notes." Nicky speaks with sweetly edged insanity. Davy says nothing. Nicky is fine with that. He keeps talking. “Though we’ll want to try everything again, won't we? No telling what will work with a man, even if it failed with a child.” Nicky lets his smile fade. “A fucking child. I have to admit, Davy, that this isn't purely scientific for me anymore. In case you were wondering. To be sure, I'll happily use your pain to fuel my own survival. But between you and me? I really want to see you suffer.” Nicky smiles again, glaringly unhinged. “It's a happy thing when goals align so cleanly.”

He breathes in the night air, deeply. He stretches his arms above his head, letting his joints pop and his spine crackle. Davy remain frozen. Silent. Nicky speaks again.

“Cat got your tongue? No matter. Best to get started then, I reckon. No time like the present.”

Nicky easily hoists the heavy box of books in one arm, and lifts Davy’s still-bound body with the other. The steps creak as he walks up them, and the door closes loudly behind him. There's the unmistakable click of a lock, then another. Then nothing.

Finally, the night grows silent again. The dust settles. Insects resume their night song, and everything is right with the world. A world that has nothing more to fear from Davy, ever again.


	45. Epilogue with anniversaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. Or something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first first anniversary. Or maybe it's the first second anniversary? That can't be right. So maybe it's the second first anniversary? Anyway, it's definitely an anniversary :)

**Baz**

_December 22nd – one year after the start of the middle_

We couldn't decide if our anniversary was December 22nd (as I believe) or December 23rd (as Simon insists). So Simon, unwilling to face even this small confrontation, decided we should have a two day anniversary.

I teased him that it was because then there'd be two days of presents. His ridiculous, beautiful face lit up as he squeaked “I hadn't even thought of that part!” He's such a child. (And I mean that in the best way possible.) 

But then he turned serious, and gravely insisted that two anniversaries does not in the least imply two sets of presents. We will each get one present, but on two different days. I get to give him his present on the day I think is the real anniversary, and vice versa. 

Today’s the 22nd. My day. But now he says he’s too excited to wait an extra day to give me my present. Apparently, he needs to give it to me immediately or he will explode.

I offer token resistance, but quickly relent. I am magnanimous enough not to point out that it had been his rule to begin with. I tell myself that my self-restraint has nothing to do with the fact that he is now bouncing up and down and kissing me and telling me I'm the best boyfriend in the world. Any world. All the worlds.

He does me the courtesy of pretending to believe my sigh of exasperation and condescending eyebrow. He pulls away and runs into the other room. He returns almost immediately, and hands me a lumpy, gloriously silly-looking package that is just barely contained by a complex array of paper and ribbons and scotch tape.

He scowls at me when I laugh. I stop immediately. I was mainly laughing because I'm actually a little nervous.

(And yes, because the whole thing looks ridiculous. But how do I explain that ridiculous is good? Bright, enthusiastic outpourings of uncontainable Simon-ness are actually the things I most desire. How do I explain that this lumpy be-ribboned mess, still wrapped, is probably going to my favorite part of the gift? Short answer: I don't. After all, there are some things that should remain poetically unsaid.)

I've already decided that I'm going to give Simon my present in the garden at the club, later tonight. Because, apparently, I'm the worlds biggest sap. Which means that right now, I have to sit here while he watches me open this, with no retaliatory gift-giving until hours and hours have  passed.

I pull off the ribbons, and three bundles of cloth tumble out of the paper. They're very soft. Hand knit (not particularly well), and pale blue (which would be vain, except that it really is my favorite color).

I pick them up, trying not to give away how clueless I am. I glance up at Simon. He's looking at me with a challenge in his eyes. Waiting for me to admit I have no idea what these are supposed to be. Or maybe waiting to see how long I'll keep pretending I'm not baffled. I want to say something witty and easy. But I'm scared of fucking up. So I just keep looking at him, turning it around. Waiting to see how long he can hold in the explanation.

I win. He never could stay quiet for very long.

"I made them! Jackie taught me how to knit! They're called lover's mittens!”

I look dubiously at the pile of objects on my lap. Two of them bear a passing resemblance to mittens. But the third is a mystery.

“See! This one goes on _your_ hand," he says, and slips a soft blue mitten over my right hand. "This one goes on _my_ hand," he continues, slipping one his left hand. "And this one," he says, holding up the bizarre third bit, "goes over both our hands! so we can wear mittens and still hold hands!"

He points out two little openings in the third bundle of cloth. One for his right hand, and one for my left. Then he holds my hand inside the cozy little bag, and smiles.

(I was wrong. I do like it even better now that it's unwrapped.)

This time when I laugh, he laughs with me. It's tricky, holding hands with the sun. The heat from his smiles reflects blindingly off our be-mittened hands, travels along the veins of my arm directly to my heart, and radiates out until every part of me burns.

 

**Simon**

For our first first anniversary, Baz takes me back to the jazz club. He claims it's because the membership expires at the end of the year. He reasonably points out that we may as well go while we still can. I don’t let on that I know that it's really because he's the world's biggest sap.

This time, I wear a suit. But we also wear the mittens I knit, and he refuses to take them off, even once we get inside.

Honestly, _I'm_ a bit embarrassed. But he holds my hand behind the blue curtain of the third mitten, across the dance floor and towards the hidden staircase. My face burns, but there's no way that I'm backing down first.

He finally has to let go of my hand, as the mundane logistics of descending stairs win out over the ever-present desire to be connected. Palm to palm, skin to skin, body to body. Our hands have to part, but the mittens stay.

I can see nothing but him as he moves in front of me. I see his edges: the smooth straight line of his back, the sweeping perpendicular force of his shoulders. I see his form slice through space. I watch the elegant confidence of his legs and arms as they swing and balance to propel him forward.

The rhythm of him, just him walking. It does things to me. Things that pull in opposite directions but don't cancel out. It fills me with a warm, weighty fondness that lumps in my throat and pours through my limbs like honey. And it electrifies me with a trembling rush, a tightening and a loosening that makes my fingers curl with the sense memory of moving across his skin.

I see his edges, and then they bend and curve. His head turns smoothly towards me and his face transforms. It shifts and melts into the expression that I love best. It's the Baz-seeing-Simon version of his face, and it is soft and sharp and beautiful; it is mine.

He finally takes the mittens off when we get to the dark wood of the anteroom where we check our coats, but he immediately takes my hand in his again, threading his fingers through mine. I find it hard not to kiss him, but I manage.

I hold back because now he's slipping something out of his pocket and into the hand of the uniformed attendant, and I know the gravity implied by the simple gesture. He's returning the medallion held by all club members. The act of giving it back signals his intention to withdraw from the club when his current subscription expires next week.

The irony is that, although he can no longer afford to pay the membership, I can. But he reacted really badly when I offered to pay. Which was kind of funny and kind of awful and kind of one of those moments that convinces you there must be a god after all. A fucking annoying one. How else can you explain the universe’s penchant for shitty jokes?

The moment passes. We walk to his table, hand in hand. By now, I know to expect a waiter to just show up with some food and wine. I can't help but think back to last year. It's bizarre to remember seeing Baz through that lens of fear. It seems so, so long ago. It's a relief to know we’ll never have to make that trip again, the journey from there to here. From then to now. Whatever happens next, there's no going back to that bleak reality. There's no reality left in which I fear him.

It makes me lean across the table and finally kiss him. He looks startled for a second, and then happy. He sweeps his thumb across the back of my hand in what's become a gesture as familiar as breathing, and we just sit and look at each other. It's cheesy and absurd and I don't give a fuck. Like everything else that is good in my life, I fought for this. We both did. We fucking earned the right to be this irritating.

Instead of a waiter bearing a tray, an older man in a jacket and tie appears at the table. He puts something down next to Baz, and I recognize it as the medallion Baz had just handed in.

“Good evening Mr. Pitch,” he says formally to Baz. He turns to me and nods politely, “Sir.” Usually, someone calling me _sir_ would set me on edge. But the man (I don't think he's a waiter; I don't know what he is) radiates a calm kindness that leaves me feeling warm instead.

He turns back to Baz and continues speaking. “I would be grateful if you did me the honor of accepting this invitation.”

Baz picks up the medallion. I realize that I was wrong. It’s not the one Baz returned. It's a slightly different color, with a subtly different pattern on the front. I only notice because Baz has been quietly looking at it for a lot longer than something familiar should merit.

Finally Baz looks back up at the man, nods slightly, and replies, “the honor is mine. Thank you.” I've never heard him use this tone before.

I mean, I've heard him be formal before. Lots of times. But it was always different.

With his father, the formality is inflected with a tone of careful emptiness. In front of professors and deans, it is forceful and powerful. And with Davy. That was my favorite version of the genre. Slicing, cutting, mocking. Destruction by diphthong.

But this is different from any of those. It’s almost deferential; a warm nod, just this side of outright affection.

The man smiles in response, just slightly, and inclines his head. But his eyes betray the strength of his happiness at Baz’s response. He turns, about to go, when Baz breaks character.

He coughs slightly. In anyone else this would be unremarkable. But it's not anyone else. It's Baz. In a voice that betrays more uncertainty than he generally permits himself in public, he speaks quietly. One word. “Why?”

The man stops, turns back to the table, and raises an eyebrow. I feel like asking if they both learned the gesture from the same YouTube video, but somehow I manage to withstand the temptation.

“The chef would never forgive me if I deprived him of two people who actually understand his food,” the man says after a moment. Then he adds, with the tiniest twist of his lips, “As I am the chef, it seemed prudent to pay heed.”

**Baz**

I've heard rumors of a lifetime medallion, but I thought they were just that. Rumors. A secret club inside a secret club below a secret club. I should be disgusted. But I'm not. I'm happy. Maybe a bit thrilled, even. Because one of the rumors I’ve heard is about a particular corner of the garden. Particularly private. With a secret exit, past which a car is always ready to take you home.

One part of my mind starts planning how to put this information (which I have, but Simon surely doesn't) to best use. If my smile grows wider as the plans take shape, it's easy to hide it behind a glass of wine. Or blame it on the pleasure of watching Simon eat and talk. Or on the giddy joy that steals over both of us as we sit and drink and talk and touch.

Honestly, it's not that hard to keep things from Simon. But I feel pleased with myself nonetheless.

  
**Simon**

The break towards the end of the meal finally comes. I've been looking forward to this part of the night all night. The garden.

Not that everything hasn't been great up to this point. It has. The music and food were amazing. In fact, the food tonight was exceptionally good. Or maybe it's just that things have a tendency to taste better when they're not seasoned by fear and secrets.

It's been glorious so far. But my heart beats faster the closer we get to the moment when we walk down the side hallway to the magic garden beyond it.

It’s started raining when we finally get outside. But the rain is gentle, and feels good after the closed indoor air. We’re sitting in a more secluded area of the gardens, and the trees and sculptures form a sort of shelter above us. We're still getting wet, but not uncomfortably. And the bench we’re settled on is heated.

As a result, I'm having the surreal experience of being outside in the rain while being dry and warm at the same time. And it hits me that this is what being with Baz feels like. Outside and inside. Risky but safe, exciting but calm. A blur of speeding light, a soft layer of steady earth.

We sit for a minute, quietly, holding hands. The warmth of his palm on mine and the coolness of his fingers on my skin make me shiver in a sweet wash of apprehension. Fear and safety, falling together. I can't help smiling at the ridiculous look on his face. How did I ever find it intimidating? It's the most vulnerable expression there is: terror masked by the sheer will not to be afraid. I lean forward and kiss him gently.

He smiles at me then, wide and real. But he's still nervous. So he cocks an eyebrow, and whispers “do you think you can restrain yourself for just another a minute, you eager oaf?”

He's left it wide open, and I can't resist. I lean in closer and move my mouth to his ear and lick it before answering “I think you're going to have to restrain me yourself if that's what you're after.” I'm rewarded by the nearly undetectable flush that moves up his long throat to the tips of his ears, painting his cheeks and lips in a way that makes my taunt a bit more genuine. I won't be able to keep my hands to myself much longer when he's looking at me like that.

But. Presents!

So I sit back, pushing back my shoulders and shifting my chin forward. For whatever reason, this renders him into helpless mush every time. “Fine,” I say, fake-petulant. “What's so fucking urgent?”

A tiny smile flickers across his lips, and then he looks serious again. He pushes a box onto my lap, and mutters something that might be “happy anniversary, asshole,” but probably isn't. The first thing I notice is that the box is held shut by bakery ribbons. The kind from last year, smooth and deep. This year’s are kind of velvety and pastel. He had to have saved these for a year. I'm shocked into silence despite my best intentions to be a pain in his ass.

I open the box carefully. It’s filled with. Well, with stuff. Lots and lots of… stuff. I start looking through it. It'll take hours to go through everything, but I let myself pick up a few things at random.

A napkin covered in anxious doodles and still smelling faintly of wontons. The wrapper from an aero bar I know he stole from me. The receipt for the skate rental last winter. The sticker that held closed the box of muffins he gave me. The card I'd put in the hands of the tiny Paddington bear on his cake. A bottle of lube. (I can feel my ears burning, and try to pretend I hadn't picked that one up.) Camping hand-warmers we’d brought to Grant’s tomb. A postcard from the zoo with giraffes on it. A sealed packet with a single powdered donut. A key. A picture of the two of us that Penny must've taken. Our tickets from graduation. And a small cream-colored rectangle bordered in sapphire with three words written in Baz's elegant scrawl: I choose you.

**Baz**

He holds the card long enough to read it, and then lets it flutter through the air back into the box. His face is complicated. I had debated whether or not to put a red ball in the box, too. I would hope I made the right decision (no ball), except I know there is nothing as easy as right or wrong here. I have to trust myself. And him. Us. I have to trust this thing between us. And I do.

I gently take the box from his lap, putting it down where it will be protected from the rain until I’m ready for it again. I mean, ready for him to hold something again; something that isn't me.

And then I lean towards him, one arm keeping me balanced in the bench while the other slips around his shoulders and across his back. I keep my eyes open until I see his soften and close, until I see his mouth smile and open.

I let my eyes close too, and I kiss him.

**Simon**

A tiny focus of warmth spreads from our lips, across our tongues, and shoots through me, until I wouldn't be surprised if I was literally steaming in the heat of it. I trust him to have put my box somewhere safe. I trust him to know it's ok for us to be doing this, here. I trust him. I open myself to him and lean into the kiss and let everything else wash off me.

I've kissed Baz a fair number of times by now. And it's good. It's always so good. It’s a little different each time. Sleepy night kisses. Hungry morning kisses. Fast sweet kisses when we're going to be apart for the day. Slow sweet kisses when we get back home.

But this is a wholly different form of kiss. This kiss is a whole world. I enter into it, and there is nothing here but me and Baz. The world of this kiss holds me close and keeps me safe. The world of this kiss has shivering winds that raise goosebumps across my body. This world feels warm; it smells sweet and strong. I float in the low gravity air of this world for a moment, and then it changes again.

Baz’s fingers are in my hair. Baz’s warm breath is moving across my face. I am fully present in the usual world now, body alive with the longing hum of having Baz so close. The electric thrum of his pulse beneath my fingers makes my breath come fast. The press of his fingers in my hair makes my breath catch. The tug of his fingers, his lips, his teeth on my skin. His touch makes my breath gasp.

Then.

His tongue slides up my neck, slow and sure, from my collarbone to my ear. My fingers clench against him.

“Umm, Baz?” I'm impressed that I manage to speak at all.

“Mmmm?” he hums against me.

Not helping.

“What are you – oh! Doing?”

“Hmm. Drinking.”

“Whhhmmm….”

“Rain. You. I'm drinking the rain off of you.”

“But-“

“Hush.”

“But I – oh!” And then I can't speak anymore, because his tongue and teeth are teasing my ear and his leg is pressed up between mine and it's all I can do not to moan. What the (oh. Oh.) fuck is he (fuck!) thinking? We’re (oh my god) in public (fuckingjesusfuckingchrist) and I'm going to (fuck fuck fuck)

He finally pulls away, looking pleased with himself. I wait for my breath and my heart to stop racing and finally I can speak again.

I can speak. But I don't.

I can't waste this new discovery. I pull him back in and proceed to determine just how deep his exhibitionism goes.

We stay in the garden for a long, long time.

Nothing interrupts us. I start to realize this isn't a typical corner of the garden. My suspicion is confirmed when we're spared any weirdness of walking back through the club this disheveled. We sneak out of a hidden side door that apparently is only open to holders of the elusive lifetime medallion, and make our way home.

**Penny**

I forgot it was their anniversary. One of them anyway. Until I got to their door and they didn't answer it.

I'm just walking back down the block towards campus when I catch them out of the corner of my eye. I'm far enough that they don’t notice me, and shameless enough to take full advantage of it.

They get out of a cab. Awkwardly. At some point I realize it's so awkward because they refuse to stop holding hands. I start to hide my smile before I remember they can't see me.

I keep smiling as I watch them navigate the path from cab to door, still holding fast to one another. Simon’s trying to carry a box simultaneously, and it's a lost cause. He's clumsy at the best of times. By which I mean, when he's not drunk on alcohol and lust.

When Baz bumps his shoulder and reaches out for the box, I see that they are wearing the absolutely ridiculous mittens that Simon insisted on making. My smile grows as Baz starts showing off how perfectly he can balance the box in one hand while doing various maneuvers with the other. Simon’s laugh follows me down the block, and I keep smiling.

I smile all the way home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after. 
> 
> The end!
> 
> Thanks for coming all this way with me. 
> 
> I love all of you.
> 
> Baz's present is related to [ this ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9253298) story
> 
> For the curious: [ lovers' mittens ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/218973643/hedgehog-gloves-fox-gloves-knitted?ref=related_listings)


End file.
